childhood memories

Like Mercury

Posted on by cdjcollings

An edited re-posting, for a time such as this.

Love to all,

Char

A toucan perched on a branch in Brazil.
Brazilian Toucan

Monday, December 21, 2015

John was an enigmatic sort of person.  He was 4 1/2 years older and next in line with me.  He was a risk taker, a little dark, unapproachable, impenetrable, and brilliant. He enjoyed his own company most times so  I looked forward to when I was allowed access to his inner-sanctum. 

His bedroom was collection of unusual and mysterious things.  My recollection of his room always included a skull and crossbones upon entering, just above the door.

The events of one particular day best reveal his character.  He might have been 14 years old then and I would have been 9 or 10.  We were alone in his bedroom.  His mischievous expression, always prelude to something unexpected, commanded my full attention as he opened his sock drawer and reached to the back for a little brown bottle.  It was filled to only 1/4 capacity.  John told me to be very careful and still as he placed the bottle in my hand.  The weight was extraordinary.  Grinning, he took it back, unscrewed the top and spilled the contents of the bottle onto the floor.  It dispersed to all directions into the tiniest of little silver balls.  Using a piece of cardboard John scrapped the floor coaxing one ball toward another.  When the two made contact they instantly became one which he pushed toward the next until they formed one silver puddle.  There was no trace left behind.  John used the torn edge of another piece of cardboard to push the silver ball onto the first one.  Then he curved the board with the mercury into a funnel shape and artfully poured it back into the little brown bottle and screwed the lid onto it.  John beamed triumphant.  I was speechless.

Butterfly

Some People

They would that you never realize your brilliance.

They would that you never live a day knowing your truth, your strength, your creativity.

They would break you into bits and pieces.

They would absorb these parts of you to become one with them…mercurial.

A great gust would take away what’s left of you…perhaps as far as a desert!

Your bones could bleach there under the heat of the sun.

With the stolen pieces they attempt to realize how you are but they can’t.  They can only express a gross misinterpretation of your intention.

And in failing they feel contempt and loathing for ever having taken notice of you.

What a colossal waste of precious time!  Will they ever come to realize the beauty and wonder residing within themselves?

No matter…be Love, be generous, glorious you!

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

It’s been said that each of us has one book inside, a story to tell.  I wrote this one.

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

While struggling through a convergence of life-changing events and making little progress, I was suddenly presented with the most amazing gift.  A childhood memory suddenly emerged.   It seemed to have an urgency, pleasantly so, not at all like matters before me.  I began to write.  With every detail that I could recall, I was gifted another, until all of the shapes and colors were there within a my 50-page novelette.

It is a story from my childhood which took place in 1950’s on a farm 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 that summer with my grandparent’s had brought to my life.  And how impossible that it remained safe in my heart all along   It was written with love and a deep and ever-growing appreciation for my family.  It might well have been entitled , “The Gift”.

Here 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 ~~~~~~

You are amazing.  Create something beautiful today!

Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available through my publisher, Booklocker.   –   http://booklocker.com/books/4718.html

and:

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

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

Worth Repeating

Posted on by cdjcollings

In grade school, my class was given the assignment to memorize this poem by Rudyard Kipling. We recited it together in class. It comes to mind as I think of my children.

char

If

Rudyard KiplingBy Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/if-by-rudyard-kipling

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

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

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!

A Summer Place

Posted on by cdjcollings
Though it may be a little exaggerated and dramatic, this movie has deigned to bring to light the sexual morality of American society in the 1950’s.
My sisters were teenagers and I remember this movie being the rage among their crowd.  I am not sure if I saw it in the theater, as I often tagged along but I remember most of how it was for them, and that it was a very big deal.
Through the experiences of Hollywood’s two biggest teen idols, Troy Donahue and Sandra Dee, we watched depictions of things that was heretofore off limits and shocking.
A Summer Place dramatized a time worth sharing with our younger people.  They will be provided a glimpse that suggests the way that we were back then, and actually come away with a fair sense for that time.
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 in the 60″s and especially for this one. I still listen to my old Columbia Music Club album of movie theme songs just to hear the extraordinary Theme from a Summer Place.  The images, feelings and memories rushing in like waves on the beach in the movie.
 
Cinemascope technique would be credited for how the ocean looks more beautiful, the sky clearer and bluer, the sun and the colors brighter.  I don’t know but I think that they actually were.  
How one memory opens a door to so many others, another time, as it happens for me with this film always amazes.
A Summer Place, in retrospect and in the scheme of things, seems to be a perfect prelude to the decade that would change everything.
Trailer to A Summer Place:
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YZSBGf6abPA
Theme to A Summer Place by Percy Faith and his orchestra.
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFi_CKNJjwE

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

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

Posted on by cdjcollings

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.  And as time goes on, and less and less references made regarding John,  I cannot be certain of what or how others think of him.

His fine intellect was not always apparent as he held people’s attentions at a certain the level with his mysterious and sometimes frightening countenance.  I admired and respected him though.  He seemed to recognize that I wanted to see the other part of him behind that.  Believing he was able to see me too, and that I could be trusted was gratifying as he talked to me the way that I wanted, and not looking down and making exceptions for the little sister.  He always had my respect and admiration.

In regard to John’s nature, there was an incident that would provide some clarity.  Though as powerful as it was, still I think allowed only a glimpse of the complexities of his mind.  I can think of nothing more to have been afforded me; nothing to further unravel what he had carefully bound up from the world…nothing more as that one day in my life had done.

When I returned home that night,  John was there and instantly realized something had gone wrong in my life. He demanded to know the trouble and when I told him about what transpired, his disposition changed.    He made it clear that 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, but not for lack of John bringing his considerable might to the situation.  He never encountered the person he set out to find that night.

John was consumed by the incident so I left him alone to settle down so that we might, after a reasonable interval, enjoy something of our usual repartee on the ride home.  I felt vindicated…almost, but his effort had left him raw and unapproachable.  But we had a completely silent ride in our parents’ car, which as I recall, he had started without the benefit of a key.  He was enraged.  There was no asking permission for use of the car which would certainly not have been granted.

On an emotional level, his bravery saved me from the depths.  Selflessly, he brought all that he had to my defense and healed me then, and now.  I feel he shields me from the memory, which unless I make the decision to recall that day, remains isolated with other events that interfere with my joy.   It is miraculous that when I choose to think of it, with each recollection there seems less of the trouble and more of my brother John.  I remember the love, sparkling and everlasting, like diamond.

To my brother John, 1944 -1966.

With all of my heart .

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

So many years had gone by without a single thought of 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 I was sorting through, this forgotten experience drifted into my mind.  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

* 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 ~~~~~~

                                                                 Two Little Girls by Charon Diane

Available at my publisher’s website:

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

Also available at:

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

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