Something that is happening in the present time is my appointment to the Englewood Library Board. I am looking forward to being a part of this Board, hoping it will give me a chance to be an active part of this community. My love of reading, which was early on in life, makes this opportunity the perfect fit for me. If I can play a small part in increasing the visibility of the Library in my community, and in turn spark a passion for reading, then I think it will be a worthy use of my time.

I am not sure what sparked my love for all things literary, but I can share with you my earliest memories. I remember waiting in bed for my Daddy to come and read to me. The story I remember the most was "Goldilocks and the Three Bears." The reason I liked this book over any other had to do with the fat that I could visualize her best. I, like Goldilocks, was blond and sleeping in a nice comfy bed. I remember knowing the book so well that I would read it back to my Daddy. It never mattered that I would hold the book upside down when it was my turn to read, because I had the story memorized.

My early introduction to the Fairy Tales of old resonates with my childhood on Lake Charlotte. Looking across the Bay from my family's home there was lake and forest just west of us. There were no homes to see in that distant part of the Bay. An active imagination could see the forest of fairytales through the trees. I could see Red Ridinghood meeting the Wolf in those very woods across from our home. It could be me, for all that it mattered, going to my Grandmother's house, when my Grandmother's house was so very near to that forest.

The lake in it's nature is reflective; it makes one reflective too of the possibility of anything one could dream. And the forest held the reality unseen. I lived in a childhood of possibility. I haven't forgotten that. I can go as far as my imagination is willing to take me. The trees with their words, and the lake with it's wordless song of waves and ripples against the shore. Together they are a symphony of tales to tell.

So, can a Library today be the childhood we've forgotten, or lost? Shall we let our children grow-up with a silent speaking imagination? I hope not! I dare not let it! If you haven't been lost to wonder I hope this will serve as a reminder to get a little lost now.

Get some new material!

It is about time I start focusing on new material. I have been negligent of my blog because I have difficulty keeping everything I am doing in balance. Write a script, get started on the next one, work on my blog, fix-up the garden and the house, work on etsy, work as a part-time typist. It isn't that this is an overwhelming amount to do everyday, but I am easily distracted.

I would rather...nothing. I like doing all these things, but I need to get organized. Any ideas? Well that is what I am doing right now. For now this blog will be under construction untill I figure out the best plan to stay constant with everything.

Thank you for following along. More to come.

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The Silent, Silent Snow

Dead calm and quiet takes the breath. The chill tingles when I swallow the humid ice filled air at first. I warm it with my 98.6 degree temperature. I skate and cut the cold with my warm pink coat and long peach scarf that hangs to my knees.

I spend hours dancing on the ice with my skates, and all by myself. I know my mom is watching me from the kitchen window with a cigarette held up to her mouth. Her elbow is supported by her hand. I am sure she watches me with trepidation. She can't help but remember the time the ice broke away behind her as she and my uncle sped across the lake on a snowmobile.

I dance without my mom's fears. I dance like a rag doll with invisible strings attached that pull me across the midnight blue ice. I dance with a song in my head, or maybe I sing out and the air takes my song through headphones and only the silence hears.

The silent world holds the secrets. The silent world keeps them.

A New Year Full of Resolution

When the lake finally freezes over and the vast expanse is covered with snow, and before anything settles there, there is a great chill that rushes the shore. A white blank slate stretches shore to shore, a canvas, my canvas.

I painted memories of a small girl growing in age, but hardly height, making snowmen with her mother and cousins; or, of her cousin and friend snowmobiling right through them. The little girl cried to see her creation destroyed.

When the little girl looked from the window to the lake below she saw one midnight blue square on the whole white lake world. It was there that she could paint the sky with her skates, etch the stars with her blade.

Soon the midnight and the white would lease its land to the fisherman and the snowmobiles. Cities, however temporary, would change address to the lake while the lion still roared out a winter.

In the New Year the world still sleeps, and under the lake the fish are far away.

White snow singing

My breath is sweet with snowflakes

Happy is my tongue

And while the world sleeps through the waking hour it dreams of the potential spring. I see potential in the winter too, she is the little girl who creates with all the colors of the world a peaceful snow angel full of light.

Happy New Year!