“When Bad Things Happen”

Picture0802201333_1photo by William from his tent fighting fires in northern California

*******
You are constantly given proof,
You are always invited to believe,
You are eternally being supported.

                                    “Is any among you in trouble?  Let them pray.”  James 5:13

Be Love
everything else

is

distraction.

As you live your life, bad things will happen…to you! What else will coax you from your carefully maintained comfort zone of limiting possibilities?
So what’s really happening when the baaaaad things intrude?
Upon reflection, personally, I would have to admit that I was pretty high on myself.  I felt sure of and satisfied with my life and rather proud of my accomplishments; creative, active, big thinking problem solver, go to person, answer lady, whatever it takes (so said my ex) big time doer, never sick, etc., there was always something going on, something that I needed to do. I always wore the most intriguing outfits and was fairly certain that I was personally responsible for a few trends. “You’re where you should be all the time and when you’re not you’re with…..”
Well, then I became ill.
For the next two months I lived in my office scouring the internet and printing out pages of reports and findings on suspecting causes.
Doctor after doctor and no one could tell me why or give a cause for “my condition” other than anxiety. So of course I was prescribed medication. Once on impulse I thanked a doctor for his insight because I could feel his growing frustration and impatience with me, and because I so needed at least a feeling of something constructive to come of this latest consultation.  He seemed pleased with himself and very condescendingly sent me on my way, sure of his victory over my presentation.  Just Imagine, feeling the worst you’ve ever felt and the only action available to you was to alleviate the stress in the person you rely upon to help you!  It was clear to me that I would have to find my way to the answers through my own efforts.

What you need is always there for you

On a day that I shall never forget, with one particular specialist, I answered yes to a question all doctors ask during consultation. Up until then, each time, with each doctor, I’d answered no. The question was, “Do you have a headache?”
Driving home from yet another perplexed doctor, I wondered, after 3 months into my investigation of my illness, and so many visits to doctors and emergency rooms, what was different this time? Why had I answered yes?

I started going backward with all of the details of that day. Everything was unremarkable except for how, uncharacteristically, I had closed the windows of my car leaving only the sunroof open because it was chilly from the night before when it rained. No air, all windows open is my usual. Was there anything else about the car? Yes there was. The engine has recently been replaced. Slowly coming forward to conscientiousness, an ethereal suggestion hinted, “Could carbon monoxide be involved?”

Once at home I immediately I called my general practitioner’s office. I spoke to the nurse and told her I needed the doctor to know about my suspicions regarding my car and carbon monoxide. She called back minutes later to ask if I meant to say carbon dioxide. Really?  I started to cry. I had never been so completely frustrated or felt so entirely lost, alone, and desperate. I fell to the floor and prayed, “God in heaven, please help me. Down here no one seems to know anything!” Then, I sensed  a clear, authoritative directive, to take the carbon monoxide detector from the wall and to place it in the car. I was stunned for a moment. Then I followed through placing the meter in the driver’s seat, I closed the windows, started the engine, got out of the car, and closed the door. After 10 minutes waiting on my porch, I returned to the car to get the meter reading which registered a very high level of carbon monoxide. I was being poisoned by my car’s exhaust fumes!

Stress slipped away and I felt a warm comforting Presence all around me. I didn’t want to stray from it so I continued to lie there enjoying the most amazing sense of security and love and acceptance. I could have been taken away on a breeze. My prayer was answered and I felt safe for the first time in months.

Recovery from this kind injury takes a long time and patient, consistent self-care. What a challenge it is for a previously impatient me!

I am different now.  I can’t do it all these days but with Grace, I’ve learned in exchange, that when I allow others to do for me I get to experience the beautiful gift of connection existing between us all. I was surprised to find that people seem to gravitate to the opportunity to experience that connection, to express the Love!

For a take-charge personality the biggest challenge has been a simple one; to allow others. Though it continues to be my first response, I just don’t need to take charge anymore. My good fortune has been that I’ve established some incredible bonds as well as rid myself of a couple of fair-weather-friends (after so many years, who knew, though they have always been rather difficult.) Because of my illness I know some of what’s been missing. And each day I discover more, i.e. my love of writing!

So could it be that the bad things that happen are just an invitation to experience your life from a different perspective, to see what becomes of you? And perhaps it’s all part of the grand design anyway, in revealing the wonder of you, your self, your most precious and amazing gift!
Wow!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

We tend to forget many of the experiences that we’ve had, and easily so as some are truly forgettable, others regrettable, and still others simply because we must get on with our lives.  Some events, though we may not think of them when they occur as pertinent or relevant, remain with us somewhere deep inside.

For months I’d been struggling with a perplexing issue which seemed to defy resolution.  I was bound on all sides with thinking about it, when suddenly a forgotten memory emerged.  Shapes, colors, and details became part of the air around me, dancing in concert to form a story that I would tell in a little book that I would write.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place in 1957 in Virginia. As I wrote the words, I felt warm and comforting support for a time that I spent with my grandparents, so very dear to me now.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning the summer had brought to my life.   How impossible that it was safe in my heart all along   It is a story of love and an ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                            Here is an excerpt from my novelette:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until suppertime. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Choice Love

                                                       

“Love’s in need of love today.

                                                Don’t delay send yours in right away.”

by the great Stevie Wonder

 

So apropos and timely, this amazing, song, lyrics, video is here, from You Tube:

What’s Fair?

Picture0709201458_1

Do people sometimes get lost and end with being as brutal as those that they rally against?

Do people find that what they actually want, is to turn the tables in order to become the abusers…to have the opportunity to feel what it is to dole out some brutality of their very own?

And in the process, do they completely lose their way, with any sense of fairness becoming farther and farther out of reach, for everyone?

What if, along the way, we reminded ourselves of The Word?

And might we find it to be the guide that keeps us clear of mind so that we can actually realize the things that are important to us?

“…for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Romans 12:19

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was a complete surprise to find deep within my heart the memory of a time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day this forgotten memory came forward and most effortlessly, revealed itself to me as I wrote all that I could remember of what one month later had become a book.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place during the summer of 1957 in Virginia.  As I wrote I was engulfed with warmth and comforting support, rather startling as it was so real.  I know now that it had to remain deep within me as only the passage of time could reveal the beauty of it.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

 

** The following is an excerpt from my book:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

 

 

 

Angel on the Highway

The year was 1980.  I worked the third shift, three nights of the week at a computer firm while my husband was at home with our two children.

The car I was driving, our second, was a sturdy old Plymouth Valiant, model year 1964. It ran well and had been very reliable for trips to the creek with the children and the dog, or to town to visit a museum, for grocery shopping, and whatever else a mom and two little ones might be bound for in the course of a day.  We never had to worry about spills or mud on the seats so the children loved it.

One night on my way home from work, at approximately 1:30 am it started to rain. By the time I reached the highway it was torrential.  Suddenly my windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge and visibility was absolutely null.  I panicked because I remembered that the road was close to a ravine with only a very short rail along the side of it.   I steered the car toward the gravel strip beside the paved road and very slowly drove until I thought that all of the car’s wheels were off of the road and onto the strip. It was pitch black as I got out of my car to see if it was safely positioned.  A chill ran up my spine.  My car was just inches away from the rail.

I got back into the car and rolled down my window to try to flag someone but the traffic was moving so fast that I didn’t feel at all safe doing that so I rolled up the window.   The passenger in a large truck looked straight at me laughed devilishly as it sped by.  I remember feeling absolutely helpless and desperate.

Then I looked up into my rear-view mirror and instead of the terrible darkness I saw two yellow headlights approaching from behind.   I remember thinking that the lights seemed to have an uncharacteristically soft yellow glow.  I felt so relieved as a gentlemen, wearing a brown tweed overcoat and a hat was approaching my car. He tipped his hat as he asked, “Hello, Miss. May I help you with something?” His antiquated gesture and graceful manner were both startling and disarming. Men don’t tip or wear fedora hats these days.  His skin was flawlessly smooth and pale and his eyes were the color of blue crystal.  I was stunned.  I told him that my windshield wipers were not working and that I couldn’t see to drive.  He smiled and said, “I’ll see if I can be of assistance.”  He went straight to work removing the windshield wiper blades and switching them from one side of the window to the other, and turning them so that the worn ends were at the bottom of the windshield.  Then he told me to, “Try them now.”  They worked perfectly well to clear the rain from the windshield so that I had visibility once again.  I was astonished with simplicity of his solution to my problem.  The stranger said that he was glad that he could help me and that I should take good care going home in such weather.   He smiled again as he tipped his hat good-bye.  I thanked him profusely and watched him as he walked to his car, got in and drove away.  As his car disappeared into the darkness from which it came, I was thinking that the round and sturdy looking vehicle was a match with his manner and style of dress, as if from the era of 1950s.

Once my friend was out of sight, I became acutely aware of the intimidating highway traffic swishing by my car.  And I realized that while the kind stranger was with me, how it had seemed as if we were completely alone on the highway, and that for entire time I hadn’t seen nor had I heard any traffic passing at all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

My book!

Two Little Girls by Charon Dianehttp://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

I didn’t know that somewhere deep in my heart was a memory of a time that I spent with my grandparents.  One day this forgotten memory came forward and most effortlessly, revealed itself to me as I wrote all that I could remember of what one month later became a book.

This extraordinary experience of my childhood took place during the summer of 1957 in Virginia.  As I wrote I was engulfed with warmth and comforting support, rather startling as it was so real.  I know now that it had to remain deep within me as only the passage of time could reveal the beauty of it.  Until the time of writing, I was unaware of how much meaning it had brought to my life. It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

* An excerpt from my book:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

 

What If?

Hard to tell what the truth is.  We’re in the midst of something that we cannot navigate if we are to listen to what is being said.  There is just so much: half-truths, fabrications, even lies; information withheld because there is no complete certainty of what is actually within our midst.  Everyone has an opinion; yet no one knows for sure.

And we do like being sure.

We need to know for sure.

Well, too bad because this one has got us by the you-know-whats.  While no one wants to leave their well-being to a crap shoot, we do our due diligence health wise and hope it suffices.

As there is no definitive, there is no clearly effective shield from this scourge.  No one finds themselves more able to insulate themselves than the person in back of the line.

Anger and divisiveness does not make us safer.

Where can I find some hand sanitizer?

So what now?

I must say that I’ve been made aware of a change.  As unnerving as it is, I think the uncertainty makes people more considerate of each other, somehow.  I notice kindness, more tolerance, even a tepid sense of humor in instances where people might previously  have chosen to avoid each other.  It is a little startling, pleasantly so.  And I’ll take it!

Is this virus the thing that provokes us to be more of a human being toward next person?

It is a tough lesson but this microscopic bit of hope within the extenuating circumstances of the corona virus could have a more profound and unexpected impact toward improving the situation in which we all find ourselves; to change our way with each other like nothing else, if, you believe in the power of such sentiments as consideration, or kindness, compassion, love?  I  do.  Is that a stretch?

But let’s face it.  Fear makes friends like nothing else can.  Or as Shakespeare said, “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.”

Now the trick is to get to this place without such terrible provocation.

The effort is so very well worth making.  And it requires so little of us.

Sending loving kindness and good health to everyone, everywhere!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years had gone by without a single thought of the time in 1957 when I spent the summer with my grandparents on their farm in Virginia.  Then, in the midst of a prolonged illness, among all of the things my mind was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted in.  Totally unprovoked and effortlessly revealing, I felt the need to write everything that I could remember, just as it presented itself to me.

And as I wrote, I became more and more immersed within the warmth and comfort of that time with my grandparents, so precious and dear to me now, as I realize after all, how much meaning it brought to my life.

This glimpse into their world was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family, for my heritage.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                                    

 

* An excerpt from my book:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

A Summer Place

Exaggerated, overly dramatic, and contrived, this movie deigned to dramatize the sexual morality of society in the 1950’s.
My sisters were teenagers at the time and I remember this movie because it was the rage among their crowd.  I am not sure if I saw it in the theater with them, as I often tagged along if they were to go the movies at all but however it was, I was aware of it and that it was a very big deal.
I remember thinking how daring this movie was…presented on the silver screen, “as big as day”.  Through the experiences of our two biggest teen idols, Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee, we watched depictions of things that was heretofore off limits for discussion, even shocking.  Oh, how far we have come from that time!
This movie dramatized a time worth sharing with our young people today.   Though extremely contrived and forced a story, with poor, unimaginative dialogue, they will be provided a glimpse that suggests the way that we were back then.
I have since included it in my collection with a plan to view with my children and grandchildren. I can’t wait to hear their comments!
The theme song is quite possibly the most beautiful of all time. Percy Faith and his Orchestra was known for brilliant renditions of movie theme songs back then and especially for this one, composed by Max Stein.  I still listen to my old Columbia Music Club album of movie theme songs just to hear the extraordinarily beautiful Theme from a Summer Place.  The images, feelings and memories rushing into the room like the waves on the beach in the movie.  It is a musical masterpiece for all time.
I can’t decide if the Cinemascope technique is credited for how the ocean looks more beautiful, the sky clearer and bluer, the sun and the colors brighter…the people thinner.  I don’t know but I think that they actually were.  
How one memory opens the gate to so many other memories as it happens for me with this film never fails to amaze me.
I always enjoy watching A Summer Place, and in retrospect, in the scheme of things, it seems the theme is an apt prelude to the decade that would change everything.
Trailer to A Summer Place:
Theme to A Summer Place by Percy Faith and his orchestra.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years had gone by without a single thought of the time in 1957 when I spent the summer with my grandparents on their farm in Virginia.  Then, in the midst of a prolonged illness, among all of the things my mind was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted in.  Totally unprovoked and effortlessly revealing, I felt the need to write everything that I could remember, just as it presented itself to me.

And as I wrote, I became more and more immersed within the warmth and comfort of that time with my grandparents, so precious and dear to me now, as I realize after all how much meaning it brought to my life.

This glimpse into their world was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family, for my heritage.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/Two-Little-Girls-Charon-Diane/dp/1609101375

* An excerpt from my book:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

John

This is a story of my brother, John.  He was a very complex figure in my life and for the rest of my family members, I suspect.  As the youngest I was shielded from the more intriguing family matters, so I can not be certain of how others felt about him.  Though the mixed emotions that I had for John would be clearly defined one day.

His fine intellect was not always apparent as he held people’s attention at the level  of his mysterious and sometimes frightening countenance.  I admired and respected him, though.  I could see beyond that to another part of him, I thought.  I was so pleased believing he was able to see that I could be trusted, and talk to me the way that I wanted, without looking down and making exceptions for the little sister.  He always had my respect and admiration.  And he would come to be my hero.

He saved my spirit and I loved him for the incredible bravery and generosity that he brought forth on my behalf.  He put himself in harms way for me in regard to a matter that we never shared with anyone.

That night, when I returned home,  John was there and quickly realized something had gone wrong in my life.  He demanded to know the trouble and when I told him about what transpired, his disposition immediately changed.  He took control of my fear with a response seeming to reveal at least a part of his mysterious nature.   He was completely prepared for the situation that I presented to him, so much so that I feared for his safety.  Thank heaven, my prayers were answered and no one was confronted that night, but not for lack of John bringing his considerable might to the situation.  He went looking for the person involved but could not find him.

John was consumed by the incident so I left him alone to settle down in the aftermath, so that we might, after a reasonable interval, enjoy something of our usual repartee on the ride home.  But we had a completely silent ride in our parent’s car, which as I recall, he had started without the benefit of a key.  He was so enraged, there was no asking permission which would not have been granted.

His bravery saved me from the depths.  Selflessly, he brought all that he had to my defense.  He healed me then and even now, I feel he shields me from the memory.  Unless I make the decision to recall that day, it is far away from my life.  And, when and I do, with each recollection, what I remember is more of John.  It is the amazing thing that I’ve noticed.  It is the love that remains…and grows!

I love you, John.  I thank you.  I miss you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Years had gone by without a single thought of the time in 1957 when I spent the summer with my grandparents on their farm in Virginia.  Then, in the midst of a prolonged illness, among all of the things my mind was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted in.  Totally unprovoked and effortlessly revealing, I felt the need to write everything that I could remember, just as it presented itself to me.

And as I wrote, I became more and more immersed within the warmth and comfort of that time with my grandparents, so precious and dear to me now, as I realize after all, how much meaning it brought to my life.

This glimpse into their world was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family, for my heritage.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

                                                                        Truth is Beauty is Love

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/Two-Little-Girls-Charon-Diane/dp/1609101375

 

* An excerpt from my book:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

 

1967

A group of hippies hang out during the Monterey Pop Festival.

Turn on tune in drop out.

So many friends never got back from there, that mad, crazy time.

what even brought me to it, still wondering…

Took hold of us             and then it was over.

there’s some unforgettable music
every decade has that

We were so special

My friends back home wished they had come.

YES!

the intrigue

try anything…freak said, “don’t let it worry ya”.

mind-blowing who knows what      where…

i still needed to work.

* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ *

As years go by, along with the changing capacity of a physical body I realized a really good thing.   It may be possible only with the passage of time and the experience thereof.  After it all, it could be correctly described as an exchange for the potential of understanding for choices made, a perspective of things that came before, a realization of the amazing harmony of life.

Suppose it falls within the limits of understanding that children possess, which allows an experience to settle so completely into recesses of a person’s mind…just as though it never happened?

In 2010, an occurrence opened the door for me to a time, a memory and relentless, but welcome preoccupation, which stayed on until I finished the book that I found myself writing.

The following is an excerpt:

Two Little Girls

Chapter 1

As far as I was concerned, summer began with the day my father installed the screens in the windows. Early that morning, Mother would have taken the summer sheers from storage to the clothesline in our backyard. By the afternoon, she swooped up the freshened bundle and brought them back indoors to hang on the rods at the tops of the windows. When the transformation was complete, I’d run from room to room to see the curtains flying on the breeze that raced in through the windows of our big old house. Like a magical invitation to adventures possible only with summer, when one day melted into the next and no one asked about the time, I felt that I could fly too and that anything could happen.

There were 5 children in my family. My brother Lionel was the oldest; my sister Cecilia was next, followed by my sister Rose, then my brother Isaac, and me. We spent summertime totally absorbed in keeping pace with our friends as was our Mother in keeping up with us. She mended our scraped knees, our bruised egos, and the holes in my brothers’ dungarees. I remember lemonade and tuna sandwiches, cotton sun dresses and hair ribbons; the pennies I collected for the corner candy store, and my ankle socks that never stayed up. Summers seemed much longer then when hopscotch and jump rope, hide-and-seek and tag, dress-up and make-believe, with my bicycle, my dolls and friends filled the days until supper time. When August finally came around, among the five of us someone would be chosen to vacation with our grandparents in the country. It was in the year 1957 that I was to spend my first summer there.

I’d thought so often about my first trip to the farm. But like the landing of a cascading boulder, my mother’s cheerful delivery of this summer’s plan completely shattered my vision of it. Leaving little room for the way that reality alters things but similar to most events concerning “the children”, I was quite certain of my unvarying reverie. It was always the same.  My brothers and sisters are running through a country field with me, very happily and as usual, following close behind. But everything had been arranged and I alone would spend two weeks on the farm that year.

My family had gathered in the living room when Mother made the announcement. But my frustrating lack of enthusiasm was like a call to dinner in emptying the room of everyone and I found myself alone, save for the dog. While I struggled with the concept of being on my own, Spiky jumped onto the couch next to me. Placing his head upon my foot he kept a concerned and watchful eye over my disposition until we both fell asleep.

Later that day, I listened to Dad’s recollections of farm life adventures while Mother prepared supper. As she filled in with the finer points and particulars she’d taken note of my mixed feelings with her knowing smile that always took the sharp edges off of things. “Don’t forget that your cousin Joanna is just about your age and lives close to Grandpa‘s”, she nearly whispered. Then I thought of the pocket inside the little green suitcase as the place where my Jacks would find a perfect fit.

                                          ~~~~~~~ Truth is Beauty is Love ~~~~~~

 

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

https://barnesandnoble.com/w/two-little-girls-charon-                                              diane/1022157163?ean=9781609101374

https://www.amazon.com/s?                                                                          k=two+little+girls+charon+diane&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

 

 

 

george…

McLennan_Tahiti_2013_0179

“Although your mind’s opaque, try thinking more if just for your own sake.”