Girls Without Shoes

October 30, 2008

One Finger Love Poems

Filed under: fiction,short pieces — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:25 am
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He typed a poem with one finger to his Love. He was the least likely man to write a love poem, or so she thought. He was not even a poet. She was the poet. She was the song writer. She wrote gorgeous love songs that could make you weep.

His poem was about love and being safe in his arms. It was in response to one of her lovely love songs that he had heard her sing once. He was an old flame, that she thought had been put out. Actually he had extinguished the flame himself. She never dreamed that it would be rekindled. Not ever as she had been that hurt.

It was many years later when she took up writing songs again. It had always been one of her passions, but it had been a terribly long time since she had written. She was inspired to churn out song after song after song. Most were about love and longing, haunting and beautiful.

It was so much quicker to type the songs out on her computer’s keyboard than writing with an ink pen. She had always liked the feel of the pen in her fingers, the ink flowing smoothly against the paper as she lovingly wrote. Still, the words in her head came so fast that it was easier to capture them with the keyboard. Capture the words quickly, before they got away.

She would sometimes hear a melody in her head as the words were forming. By the time the piece was finished, she would be singing the song. Sometimes she dreamed the words and the music. Sometimes she was lucky enough to remember those dreams and write them. These were usually the best songs. The songs that she did not have to try hard to write. The words just came to her and came out when she wrote or typed them.

He had been quite an inspiration for many of her love songs. They were hauntingly yearning, speaking of love so intense that you would cry to try to explain it. The yearning was for that love that you had never experienced, but knew was possible. The yearning was also for the love that you had and never could get enough of and later for the loss of that same love. The loss of that love that you would always miss and would never forget. The yearning for that feeling. For that feeling of coming home. For the safety of that love that enfolds you and captures your every breath and heartbeat. The very stuff that love songs were and are made of.

Yes, as years went by, and as her love with him began re-igniting ,she was more inspired than she had ever been before in her life. The love songs flowed in a silky effortless manner. She was so moved with emotion that she cried as she wrote. Her tears would flow and seemed to be tinged with pink as the love spilled out.

Who says that love has no color? Who says that you cannot describe love? The indescribable is actually described in these love songs she writes. The indescribable is also described by the vision of a man with a woodsy look and feel about him. A man with silvery hair and beard. A man with those intense eyes that she loves to fall into. A man with hands too large and awkward to be comfortable on a keyboard. The vision of that man typing a love poem from his heart to his love with one finger.

October 29, 2008

Coffee and Lipstick

Filed under: Humor,non-fiction,short pieces — girlswithoutshoes @ 1:40 am
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Coffee and lipstick in the morning are a requirement for my mom and me. We start our mornings with a cup of coffee and get ready for the day. Then I haul everything out to the car, purses, my mom’s tote bag, her cane, 2 little pillows, her mittens, and coat. I fight off the dogs as I go in and out of the gate. Then it is back inside of the house to finish up my hair, grab another cup of coffee, throw food at the dogs and cats and help my mom down the ramp and out to the car with her walker. Getting her in the car without hurting her legs is never easy and I often fail at it. Many times she ends up crying because her arthritis hurts so bad. I help her buckle her seatbelt and throw her walker in the back seat. Then we are off to my brother’s house for her and work for me.

We have only been doing this for a couple of months, but have settled into a comfortable routine. We share a cup of coffee as we get onto the freeway. I have many comments about other people’s driving on the way, of course. Usually there is a Christian Radio Station on as we both enjoy it. It is our “church in the car” time. It also helps me not to “murder people in my heart” for their terrible driving practices!

After a few minutes my mom usually asks me, “Do you have your makeup on?” I usually say,” not yet” and fumble around for my Mary Kay foundation while driving. My mom tried to help, sometimes finding it before I do. She then takes off the cap and hands it to me. I start globbing it on my face in little dots here and there and smoothing it in until I am satisfied. All of this while driving on the freeway, glancing back and forth from my face in the mirror to the road ahead of me and behind. Shame on me, I know this is not a good idea. Putting on make up and driving is definately not a good idea. But I do it anyway. I love to put on make up in the car. Must be the natural daylight that I like.

After I am done with foundation, I begin with mascara and then we finish the last of the coffee. Lip gloss is next. That is when my mom starts putting on her lipstick also. She is so cute putting that pink lipstick on. I still love to watch her , something that began when I was a little girl. She seems to do it with a little flair.

That is about the time I usually am off of the freeway. That is when, this morning, I run a yellow light because I am so intent on how good this color of lip gloss looks on me. Thank God, I ran it safely! Still, wake up call. Must be careful. Must be careful not to hit another car. Must be careful not to smear your lipstick either!

This has become a little ritual of ours since traveling together in the mornings. I am find it somehow comforting, putting on make up in the morning with my mom while driving down the road together. Some mornings our time is sweet together. Some are grouchy, but not too many. Mostly it is a time I look forward to spending with my mom. Sharing a cup of coffee and our lipstick is a nice way to begin the day.

 

October 28, 2008

Gemmey’s Mom

Filed under: non-fiction,short pieces — girlswithoutshoes @ 6:31 am
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Gemmey’s Mom can’t take it anymore. She is sure she is going to loose her mind. He screams and screams and beats on her. She just doesn’t know what is wrong with him. He does not talk, he just screams.

He is almost 2 years old and has not even said “Mama”. It breaks her heart. She is pretty sure that he is autistic. He is showing the signs. The social workers think so. She has some literature to read and has had meetings with a specialist.

She loads him into the stroller and walks down the street to the little market. You can hear Gemmey letting out a shrill scream every so often as she walks him. She goes into the market and directly to the beer case, where she picks out two 40 oz. of the cheapest beer. That will do for now. She smiles tensely and chats with the girl at the counter and looks nervously about as Gemmey lets out another scream. She has got to go! “Bye now! Have a good day!”

She goes back home and pours herself a beer and gets Gemmey to settle down for a morning nap. Finally. Thank God. Then she reads some material on autism given to her dreading the facts. Her husband has already left her. She loved him so. But they fought. When they drank, they fought. He has been very little help with Gemmey. He wants to see him, but she is afraid. She is afraid he will steal Gemmey away from her. She would loose her mind without that baby. She has lost 2 before to miscarriages. She has another beer. Then another. She is buzzed pretty well by the time Gemmey wakes up.

She feeds him lunch and plays a little with him, then off they go. Into the stroller again. Into the little market again. To the beer case again. Two more 40 oz. cheap beers. Her demeanor is more relaxed and she is laughing a little as she converses with the girl at the counter this time. Gemmey yells loudly. She uses some sign language on Gemmey that she learned from the social worker. The sign stands for , “Need help” as she asks Gemmey, “Need help Gemmey ?”. It is time to go. Off for a walk down by the river. Gemmey’s mom says, “See ya later sweetie!” to the girl at the counter.

It is mid afternoon when the girl at the counter is getting off of work. She sees Gemmey and his mom going by heading for home. Gemmey is sleepy looking in his stroller and his mom is sleepier looking. His mom is walking in a weaving pattern down the sidewalk. She slurs her speech as she tells the girl to “Have a good day and see you tomorrow.” She and Gemmey are going home for a later afternoon nap. Actually almost evening nap.

She appears hours later looking rugged with Gemmey in tow. She is on her way to the little market again. She is with some guy she met down at the river and they are both heading to the beer case. More 40 oz. beers are bought. Twice more that evening, they come back for more before the market closes. By the last time, she is almost in a blacked out state, you can see from the way her eyes look. There is an almost vacant look about them. If you have ever seen anyone blacked out from too much alcohol, you will know what I mean. It is a look like none other. It is like the person is there physically, but that person is literally gone in a temporary alcohol haze. She stumbles and weaves her way down the street with her friend and her son.

Her days are filled with a similar routine, over and over. Eventually someone calls the cops when they cannot get her to answer her door in the middle of the day and she is discovered drunk with her baby awake inside the house. Children’s Services is called in and her son goes to foster care.

She goes to rehab twice. She makes it through one 30 day program. She gets Gemmey back. She tries not to drink. She really tries. It is just too hard for her. She is down on her luck, no money, no husband to help her, no car with an autistic child. It is just too much for her and she begins again to drink.

Her husband shows up and they talk about getting back together. They drink together and walk Gemmey around town. Later in the evenings, they argue and fight. It gets violent. She gets a knife and slices his tires. There is a lot of screaming and cussing and he goes after her. He leaves and takes Gemmey with him.

Eventually, she looses custody of Gemmey to her husband. He can only handle Gemmey for so long and puts him up for adoption. She looses Gemmey forever. She drinks more.

Gemmey’s mom is a very sweet, loving and funny young woman………when she is not drunk. Gemmey’s mom is hindered by her drinking problem. Gemmey’s mom looses 2 more children throughout the next few years. Gemmey’s mom now lives on the streets. Gemmey’s mom “Needs Help”.


Dear God, please grant her the serenity to accept the things that she cannot change, courage to change the things that she can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.


October 24, 2008

Here We Go Again

Filed under: Uncategorized — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:00 am

Actually I should say here he goes again, not here we go again. We are not going anywhere together from the looks of things. Nothing has changed in the month that he was gone. The only reason he is back home is because he fell and injured himself. He had to go to the hospital and get stitched up, so being the idiot that I am, I went and picked him up there. Then the vicodin was a given and of course he took them all. He did not really have a place to stay, and I told him that he could stay for 2 or 3 days and then we would talk. We never really talked. I finally told him, you cannot stay here unless you are clean and in treatment.

He never went to treatment or even a meeting. He seems higher than a kite tonight, all wound up and excited. Why do I not tell him to go again? It is not because I am afraid of being alone. I liked it when he was not here. After about 3 weeks, I missed him mildly. What does that tell you?

I do need money as all of mine went to pay for the house payment. It is way, way too high for both of us to pay, never the less one of us. He gave me some when he was gone, but most of his was garnished for the treatment program that did not get paid. I cannot make it on my paycheck right now. Some changes would have to be made. I am too lazy to make those changes I guess.

I am pissed off to the max right now. I am so damned angry at him and his addiction. I am angry at his choice again. I am angry at my choice, again. I am mad as hell when I hear the happiness of the drug in his voice. For God’s sake, his grandbaby does not even know him as he does not go to see him. Of course he is not allowed when high. Time is passing, time is ticking away. His chances with the grandbaby are going to slip away. It makes me sick. It makes me sad. It makes me mad, so very damned mad.

I do not even want to hear his voice as he is blabbing on and on about the day’s events. I don’t feel like it is a real person talking. It is the drug. It is always the drug. It will always be the drug. Always.

How many times, have I hoped and prayed? How many times do I try to convince myself that it will change? It could change, he could choose differently. He could choose to seek help, to seek life as some say. Instead he chooses not. So what does that mean? It means that is he is not choosing life, then he is choosing a sure death. There, I have said it. In my opinion, he chooses death.  What a waste!

October 18, 2008

I Know The Bum In The Alley

I heard a cough from the alley behind the gas station this morning. I was getting in my car for work and heard someone cough. I peeked around the alley and saw him laying there. He had a blue tarp on him and was coughing. He must have been cold. I thought who is that bum sleeping in the alley?

I went to the gas station and asked the girl who ran the place if she knew about this. She said she did not and we went to look at him. We looked at him and he looked back. He looked familiar to me. He kind of looked like someone I knew. I said, “Steve, is that you?”. It was indeed Steve.

We asked if he was alright and he said yes. He said that was as far as he made it from the bar last night. He had totaled his truck a while back. I knew what that meant. Most likely Steve got drunk and wrecked his truck. This was not the first time that he had problems due to his drinking and drug use.

Steve was an extremely handsome guy. I mean he cleaned up real good, trust me. He had many different looks though, depending on what he was doing at the time. There were times that i did not recognize him. Sometimes he looked like some hairy beast walking down the street, other times shaved and clean, like he could conquer the world. He could be extremely frightening, given the proper mixture of alcohol and/or drugs. I would steer clear of him then. When sober, he was the sweetest man you could possibly want to know.

Steve also had a mental illness. I am not sure if it was bipolar or what, but there was some sort of mental illness there from what I remember him telling my husband. Maybe that is how or why he continues to drink. Maybe to calm himself down. I am sure that he has the addictive gene.

There was a time when he got crazy and freaked out and swung some gigantic chain around in the middle of the street, actually in the middle of the bridge that comes into our little town. The cops came, and took him to the mental ward and jail later. He has been in and out of both more times than he can count.

He got married once to the love of his life. They had a little boy, the apple of his eye. Steve really “got clean” several times in order to stay out of jail and to raise his little boy. He did for a time, but I don’t know what happened. All I know that is now, I don’t see him with his little boy at all. I don’t see him with his truck. I only see him occasionally walking around town, or laying in the alley covered with the blue tarp.

The love of his life also has an addiction problem. I have not seen her for years, but all of the years that I knew her, she drank and drank and drank. She also used drugs. She had 3 other children before “apple boy.” The first two she raised through the drinking. The next one she lost to his father due to her drinking. I believe she lost the “apple boy” also.

I know that Steve has been in and out of rehab several times. He went through the best treatment as his parents are wealthy and footed the bill. I am not sure why it “didn’t take” for Steve. I would imagine it came down to choice again.

I have no idea what it is like to crave alcohol or drugs so bad that you would do anything, sacrifice anything for it, even your own child. I can try to understand, knowing about addiction and how it works. But I will never ever understand there even being a “choice” between your addiction and your child. I am not meaning to judge really, but it is hard not to when it comes to the child. Having a child would make the choice for you, in my mind. It is just beyond my understanding. I guess the addiction is bigger than anything.

Yes, I know the bum in the alley. I hope and pray for him. I pray that he will be able to someday stay strong in his choice to stay clean, I pray that he will stay clean for himself. I pray that he will stay clean so that his son will have a father. I pray that he will stay clean so that he may also have “the apple of his eye” back in his life.

” For he that toucheth you toucheth the apple of His eye.” Zech 2:8

October 16, 2008

Chickens Come Home To Roost

Why is it that chickens come home to roost later on, when it does not matter as much? Why when you do not care so much? Why, when you get on with your life and let go, would they come back to roost? Tell me the answer to this because I don’t understand.

If it is other people’s chickens coming home to roost, it can mean them suffering the consequences of their own actions. Say, if they wronged someone and did not act as if they cared about the hurting of that someone. It would seem that they are the one who escaped without the hurt, when in fact years later, sometimes 10 years later, they realize that they have not escaped any of the hurt at all.

Such as in the game of love. The BIG L…….. A woman is so in love with a man that she will do just about anything for him, or go through anything for him. Sometimes even humiliation. Love can disguise all wrongs, at least for a time. But only for a time. Eventually that woman takes what is left of herself and walks away from it. Just walks away, crying and hurting like she never has before. She is sure that she gave all of herself, though she is left feeling as if she never, ever was enough. She is wondering what, oh what exactly, is wrong with her?

Her soul feels torn for a time after. Eventually that tear heals over and she goes on. She goes on to another life, another love, though it is never the same. No two loves can ever be the same.

There are more hurts, more indecisions, more relationship changes. Plenty of loves can be had, but only a few are worthy. They all are not right. Not perfect as no one is perfect. Some come close, very close.

She comes to a time in her life where she does not depend on another’s love for her self importance. She knows herself by now, knows what is important to her and to her life. She won’t settle for anything less. Anything less is a waste of her time.

That is when the chickens come home to roost. That is when they see what they should have seen years ago. That is when they know what they should have known before. When it is too late. When it is way too late. That is when the chickens will come home to roost.

October 11, 2008

D.M.V. Mugshot Retakes? Oh, Pluueeeez………..!

Filed under: fiction,Humor,short pieces — girlswithoutshoes @ 12:46 am
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My soul sister had to get her picture taken at D.M.V. today. You know the dreaded D.M.V. photo shoot. Mine usually turn out awful. Not my soul sister’s. She is not only gorgeous, but gets her picture re- taken 4 times at D.M.V. !! The guy actually turns the monitor around and asks her, “is that okay?”. Serious, I am serious as a heart attack! Soul sister says, “Oh, myyyy…. you take realllyyyyy good pictures.” Mr. D.M.V. says to my friend, “Oh, I have lots…. of experience. !”

I told her “You have got to be kidding me, no body gets their picture re-taken at D.M.V., never the less 4 times!” Of course her picture turned out great. Mine looks like I have 2 extra chins.

I also told her ” This is just like the water thing I talked about!” When her and I go into coffee shops, guess whose water they forget? Not hers! No, the male waiters are down on one knee, literally, looking for all the world as if they are proposing to her while taking her order. They are nice enough to me and do take my order, but forget my water.

They follow her outside when she is smoking a cigarette and tell her, ” For such and such an age, you are smokin”……..” and they are not talking about her cigarette. They tell me, have a good day.

These are young guys too. Guys just look at her, even if she does nothing.  But she could just crook her finger at them and get pretty much whatever she wants, when she wants, if she wants. No problem. It is truly an amazing thing to witness. Part of it is sheer innocence. The other part is a calculated art marvelous to behold. The sheer beauty of it, I tell ya.

I find the old guys like me. Truckers like me. Big scruffy looking guys with beards like me. The trouble with that is they aren’t bringing me water or taking my picture at D.M.V. ! So what good does it do me? Sheesh.  I am definately going for a makeover !!

October 9, 2008

Sasquatch Man

I saw him today walking down the street. I now think of him as Sasquatch Man. It made me catch my breath and clutch my heart to see him like this. It made me cry to see the shadow of who he was. I cried for him and for myself, as I miss my old friend.

He is a very large man a little over 6 ft tall and probably weighs 350 lbs. He lumbers down the street, wearing his stocking hat that looks like it belongs to a lumberjack. He has taken to even wearing it with his shorts in the warmer weather. The Birkenstock sandals are always there, as they always have been, come rain or shine.

He walks everywhere now, as his license was taken away. I believe his motorcycle got sold for his and others’ safety. That alone is probably enough to make him want to die. He practically lived on it. You would see him weaving down the street, like a child does on their bicycle, just loving the feel of it.

Quite a unique individual he was. Strong and powerful in many ways. Extremely intelligent, with a very high I.Q., to the point of being almost a crazy genius. He had a very twisted sense of humor, and loved the shock effect it had on people. Folks would either be horrified at his bizarreness or laugh themselves silly. There were plenty who actually hated him, and more who loved him. He could drive you practically insane if he wanted to, by pestering you to death for attention or for drugs when he was out. That was what he always referred to as “The Malaise”. After a 40 year meth addiction, I would imagine it felt like malaise to him.

He is a product of the 60’s. There are many who spent their teens and early twenties dabbling with all kinds of drugs during the 60’s. Not just pot, but L.S.D. (acid) was popular then. It was the Hippie Years and he was no exception, but almost the rule. He lived the bizarre life then in the city. He later moved to the mountains to escape that which he ended up bringing with him.  He desired a better place to raise his family and found it.

He changed from City Hippie, to Organic Hippie, to Hippie Journalist and  Editor.  Later he became a professional in the field of Law. A brilliant, self-taught professional. He was at first scoffed at, then held in high esteem by some, and disdain by others. He was called a maverick and a lunatic. Many reasons were behind all of this. He was a “horse of a different color”. He had heart. He stood up for what he believed to be right and just.

He was right much of the time, but pushed things more than to the limit. He would push them way over the edge. His creativity knew absolutely no bounds. All of this was due not only to his nature, but to the cranked up beast raging inside of him. He was husband, father, friend, philospher, professional, and a drug addict. An amazing man in so many ways.  A doomed man in others.

Years went by, with the same behavior continuing. His family felt the ill effects of the drugs raging. His friends felt the effects. His employees felt the effects. His career felt the effect.  His mind felt the effects as did his health.

His family life became more and more strained.  Love gave way to stress and hopelessness and embarrassment.  His relationships at work became more and more strained. Trust and respect gave way to disrespect and embarrassment. His career ended in a hugely scandalous way, devastating his family, his employees and co-workers, his friends and himself.

He was never the same after that, but steadily went downhill. At first his nervousness and devastation were calmed some by tranquilizers. His mind had already been slipping for the past few years. What one would have thought was just early aging and forgetfulness turned out to be dementia. I believe that at least some of the dementia was caused from the holes that the meth had put in his brain over the years.

His drug use and the consequences were not only felt by him, but by his wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and co-workers. The consequences were huge and life changing to all concerned.

Eventually each one dealt with the stress and strain and devastation in his or her own way. We all moved on and left him behind. We left him behind trapped in a body that did not operate in the same way that it had before. The body that now walked similar to “the thorazine shuffle”, as it is known in mental wards. The eyes that did not have the same intelligent light in them as before but looked blankly into the beyond.

Confusion is written on his face. The sadness in those eyes haunts me to this day. The sadness, I believe is a little glimmer of awareness in him that is left. The awareness of all that he has lost. The huge strength and power that he had once exuded is now gone.

Yes, I saw Sasquatch Man today. He used to have another name, but now I cannot make the name fit him anymore as he is a different person. It made me catch my breath again. It made me clutch my heart again, to see him like this.  It made me cry once again to see the shadow of who he was. I cried again for him and again for myself, as I will always miss my dear old friend who is no more.

October 4, 2008

Clown Jeans

Filed under: fiction,Humor,short pieces,Uncategorized — girlswithoutshoes @ 6:27 am
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I have always thought I would make a good clown. No a great clown. I am a natural born clown anyway. I love to make people laugh, not by telling jokes, but by telling stories. I love slapstick. I love exagerated stories and antics. I love the props, like the giant shoes, colored hair, huge overdone lips and eyelashes. I know I would also love the silly clown houses and cars. The clown’s family would be cute too. I do love the little clown babies. I do not care for the sad clowns really, only the happy ones. The sad clowns, I find depressing. Who wants to be around a depressed clown? A scary clown is not a good idea either. Little children should not be scared. Likewise adults neither.

I think a magical kind of clown would be my persona. Maybe a sort of fairy clown. Maybe a hillbilly girl clown with pigtails. A potbellied pig could be her sidekick. I really don’t know all of the clown lingo yet, as I have not applied for clown school yet. Hmmmnnn, maybe a clown scholarship would be in order. I will have to check into that……

Can you imagine, your alarm goes off each morning, and you get up, get dressed for work? You put on your clown hair, pull on your clown jeans. What fun that would be. How could you possibly not want to go to work? It would be appropriate to have a special clown car to drive to work in, advertising your talent. With the gas prices, it would make sense to car pool with other clowns. What a sight that would be. Car pooling Clowns. Can you picture that? Can you see it? I can, a whole car full of clowns riding down the freeway doing all kinds of crazy stunts.

I am wondering if you could escape traffic tickets? Probably not, but it might make for a lesser charge along with the policeman’s smile I would think. I would not suggest wearing your clown outfit to court however. Court clowns are frowned upon by most Judges.

I doubt if there is a clown union. Clowns are probably considered self employed, so health benefits probably are lacking also. Have you ever heard of a clown on food stamps or unemployment?

Can you imagine dropping your children off at their school? All of their friends would want to come home with them, unless of course they were the children who were really afraid of clowns. Once they got into the Junior High Stage, it would probably keep their friends away. I would imagine it would be great to use as far as backing up threats. “Now, if you don’t quit sassing me, and get that homework done, I swear I will come and sit in your classroom right next to you and I will wear the biggest brightest nose I own! ” Yes, that might be a help with the teenage years also.

My soul sister and I were discussing the possibility of flunking out of clown school………., there would be no doubt of your being branded a huge failure. I mean if you can’t make it as a clown, come on. It would be embarrassing if you were a bad clown. I would think it would take a special kind of person to be a successful clown. Some people are doctor’s, some policemen, some waitresses, some are clowns.

I always joke about being a clown, saying that I want to go to clown school. My brother says, “What do ya mean? You are a clown, you don’t need school for that. We are both clowns by nature. ” I think my husband and I would probably be a good clown team. Now as for the kids, I don’t think they have it in them, at least not yet. I don’t think clowning is necessarily hereditary.

I am wondering if this quest for craziness on my part, for this exaggerated humor has something to do with other things in my life that have been serious in nature. An escape from life’s seriousness, a reprieve if you will. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it has something to do with being a sort of depressed, repressed child, not because I did not have good parents, but there was a depressed atmosphere in our household, due to my mom’s misdiagnosed illness. Maybe I carry a smidge of her bipolar gene? Doctor’s and those who know me don’t think so.

I love to laugh, I love to weave humor into my stories, my speech, my work, and my life. I love humor to such an extended degree, maybe more than the average Joe. I think I know why, I believe I have a Clown Gene, that must be it. There is no other explanation. I am sure I have discovered a new gene that scientists are not even aware of.

I think I can withstand anything, any bad day, or any bad time in life as long as I have humor, family and friends, and faith in God.

Oh and hey please, oh please, don’t forget to laugh…………………………..

What? Girls Giving What?

Filed under: Humor,short pieces,Uncategorized — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:57 am
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For crying out loud, I ‘m looking at my blog stats and I find someone has looked at my blog. One is disturbing. Someone actually searched, “girls giving kn_b jobs” and came up with my blog. Sorry, dude, these girls are not giving anybody a kn_b job. Girls Without Shoes, are not those type of girls!

Frankly, I am insulted. Yes, a little naive, even at my age. My title, “Girls Without Shoes”, is very dear to me. This blog is my baby, my passion. The title makes me think of little girls,running barefoot through the grass playing. There is some hillbilly and/or mountain girl undertone to it, at least in my mind and heart. I know that I have some mountain, or hill folk in my roots somewhere, thus the fascination with it, with them My soul sisters in the story Girls Without Shoes also each have some of the same roots somewhere in their family lines.

The hill, or mountain roots come from my maternal Grandmother’s side of the family. I am sure that is where my love of legends, ballads, and story- weaving particularly of a southern nature come in. I have a deep love for such things. I can only attribute the strong pull I feel to my family’s roots. It has to be, there is no other explanation for it.

My Grandmother Norma somehow instilled in me this love, without really trying. It was just her way. She used to write in journals and wrote some stories. Her grandfather was an outlaw for a time being and left a memoir of his and his brother’s “………….Hairbreadth Escapes in Look Out Hollow.” I remember my Mother retyping it on a manual typewriter when I was a tiny girl. This fascinated me, even then, that someone would leave their stories in this world for all to see.

Grandma Norma used to make everything sound mysterious. She would speak of things in the past as if they were a mystery, a legend. Now, as I am older, I really realize that she was a story teller herself. She lived in an old farm house when I was small. I used to visit her every summer. I remember this house had an attic room with no stairs to it from the inside or outside of the house. Apparently the drop down ladder that used to be there was gone. It was quite an adventure for us to get a ladder and climb up to this room from the outside of her house and peek in the window. There was an old iron bed, made neatly with a dusty quilt. Beside the bed was a pair of women’s high top shoes. The room had just been left like that. I think that was when I fell in love with all things old. Antiques or rustic items and old homes had stories in them. This was just one of the ways my Grandma inspired me.

Another time, my Mother and one of her friends along with all of us kids were driving somewhere in the country. I could not even say where, as I was pretty little, but remember stopping and walking back into the woods a little ways and there in a clearing was a dilapidated old one room school house, with little school desks still inside. We came away with a very old children’s school book, a reader I think. Oooh, that place had some stories too, I just knew that, even then as little as I was.

My storytelling may very well be the only thing special about me that is mine, and I love it. I truly love it. So, when I saw that someone had gotten to my site by typing in something to do with girls and porn, it really pissed me off. I know , I know, it is a big mean and ugly world out there. But somehow the fact that someone had gotten to my special Girls site via an ugly route irks me. I seriously doubt if the person who clicked on my site was interested in hillbilly girl stories, unless they were naked and doing the kind of job searched for. Well, that possibility had not occurred to me when I chose my title.

Oh, my I feel violated, sheesh. Later, gotta go fill the tub, try to “warsh some of that there dirt off’n me”.

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