He never heard the voice
I knew 'all these things'....waiting for an idea for the bear's name, I got a letter from my young nephew (Danny). I'd sent Danny some gifts; he'd had a very tough beginning - but what a darling boy he was (and now is a wonderful man). I got the mail that afternoon -
about 6 days after my bear arrived via UPS from Cincinnati where Gary Kramig had
made the bear according to my design.The letter from Danny read: "Dear Aunt Diane: Thank you for the thigs you sent me." Then a p.s.: "I'm sorry I spelled 'things' wrong, but I only have my dad's pen and I can't change it'.
About one week after I wrote Danny that I'd named my new bear 'thigs', my bear spoke again: "Do you know what thigs means?"
THIGS-BEAR did not wait for a reply....THIGS stands for TRUTH, HONOR, INTEGRITY, GOOD-SPIRIT......So it did - and in 1989, I did a
copy-right on all my poetry, and a short-story - it's called: 'IN THE SPIRIT OF SELF'. I re-named my promotion's
business (very small), THIGS, TWIGS, AND CHALK-TALK.
Chalk-talk was for the children; we handed out pieces of large colored chalk - had the kids draw on the sidewalks and drive-ways; I'd take the photos, and save their drawings 'forever'. I got this idea when I lived in Seattle; a poor little girl (only poor because her parents were) loved to draw with chalk on our sea-wall. She'd cry each day when the tide rose, and washed her drawings away. One day I saw her crying; I talked to her and said the next day we'd save all that she drew. She drew; I took photos - I developed them, and framed them. They were by her bed-side when I left Seattle in 1983.
THIGS-BEAR says that blogs sounds like someone spilled 'blogs of milk' on the floor - and what is that 'blog' on the rug??? I say a 'blog' is a 'biographical-log' - the story of our lives unfolding, and we have the chance to 'spill it' not on the rug, but on the I-net where we become just 'another candle' for others to see, and get to know better.Diane Stirling-Stevens -
Nevada
My mother who would sort her canned goods - wash them; line them up in the basement - noting the colors, so they were 'beautiful' when one came down to pick out a canned jar of: Tomatoes (red)
Peaches (peach-colored)
Pears - pale white
Green Beans - (green)
Corn - a lovely yellow
The stored vegetables were some type of artistic display as well as a collection of good foods for the winter.
How do I love the way my mother stuffed the toes of the shoes so she and I could BOTH wear them - we were so poor, but her feet were bigger........
How do I love the yellow dress my mother wore at her wedding, and years later, made into an 8th grade graduation dress for me....
How do I love the way my mother pulled 3 old coats together; stripped off the better parts to make 'trim' for the worn parts, so I could stay warm.
How do I love the days and nights?
My mother and dad would tie a chain to an old tree or Lilac bush to uproot it so we could cut it up for wood to fuel the fire to keep us warm.
How do I love the way my parents would stack the baled straw against the house that was so drafty to shield us from the cold winter weather.
How do I love the old rags that were shoved against the doors and windows - keeping the drafts out.
How do I love the way dad made the popped corn for a treat.
How do I love the way mom froze Kool-aid in ice-cube trays (complete with tooth-picks) to give us a treat that wasn't expensive (and our favorite flavor was Grape).
How do I love the old detergent boxes that were cut open; the 'plain side' made into Valentine hearts for our gifts - we each got
A pack of gum
A bar of chocolate...pasted to the heart forms with home-made paste made with flour and water..........
Why do I admire the long nights of mother and dad stacking the wood gleaned from the fence-rows...cut by dad; stacked and stored by mom.....
The soil tested by dad; vials of colors for us all to give our opinions as to the color and how much
Nitrogen
Phosphorus
Potash that should be spread on the new crops to increase the yield.
Why do I remember being the holder of the flash-light,
so dad could see to fix the car...The single light-bulb that was placed under the hood of the car.....so it would start in the morning.
The flower garden flourished because mom made it happen.................The crops grew because dad tilled and fertilized the soil. We picked the edge-rows of the field for pop-corn
From Mr. Nidy's plantings.
We scoured the dump for 'treasures'.
In the Spring, we gathered the wild violets to replant around the well-pit and house. We stacked the pumpkins around the power-pole so it would look pretty for Halloween.
We learned how to take a Willow twig; sprout it in water,
And stake it to make a sturdy tree.
We divided the strawberry plants to make new babies;
We saved seeds from the harvest
To make a bigger one the next year......
We watched dad turn a salvaged furnace into a
Working fire-house
That kept us warm.
We saw my father make a 'water-heater' from bits of steel and ingenuity.
My mother has never gone to a hair-dresser; my dad never played golf.
My mother doesn't know what an LBO is....
My father wouldn't have cared.
My mother washes her car by herself; my dad polished the ones he adored.
My mother will shop at Good-will; she'll give it as well.
My dad would save old inner-tubes; a myriad of 'things' he'd make from these rubber scraps.
My dad would laugh at Red Skelton while my mother would be so tired, and fall asleep.........
My mother tried to learn more words; thanks to READERS' DIGEST...my father would gather financial information from US NEWS & WORLD REPORT.
My parents played softball; bowled, and enjoyed a 35 cent movie.
My mother sang; my father played trumpet - both could dance beautifully.
My dad painted all of the toy furniture he made for us the same green he painted his tractor....
My mother wrote the letters from Santa Claus
My dad made tiny blocks with his wood lathe - then he built a fort from those tiny blocks - glued them all together, and made us cry when we couldn't build anything else
From the blocks he made for "US".
But, not to 'fear'....Mother soaked all the blocks so the glue would 'yield', and we had
Blocks to build with again....
And these blocks
That we built with
Didn't build the
House that Jack Built, but what lived in the house
That my parent's built
Were young kids; pretty poor - pretty scared,
Yet pretty inspired
By the parents who lived in the house;
Who made do with what they had
Who showed us the way
Without "showing us the way'...
Because they took life in stride, and never said "Shit Happens" - they just said:"Life happens"...
We learned to deal with it
As mom and dad did
For so very many years.
Thank you mom - poor turned out to be the best child-hood we could have had.
With love to my mom and dad.
Diane
I need you; Macee is hurtFor Sandie Smith, and 'Macee' - Macee died
1/11/08.Written by Sandie's friend:
Diane Stirling-Stevens
Just thinking....
OLD-FASHIONED GOODIES IN A MODERN WAY
Inversnaid
This dark-some burn, horseback brown,
His roll-rock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam Flutes and low to the lake falls
home.
A wind-puff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitch-black, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heath-packs, flitches of fern,
And the bead-bonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.
-- Gerard Manley Hopkins
