Who Am I?

Lisa Jane
1st born child
(I was supposed to be John William but fate saw otherwise.)
Daughter, sister, babysitter - caregiver
wife, lover, friend - caretaker
mother, aunt, grandmother- nurturer.
Who am I?
I am bold, creative, outspoken, sometimes quiet.
I sing, I dance, I am melodramatic.
I am curious about people, places, things.
Who am I?
I am a librarian - a keeper of books, a teller of tales - a professional.
I am the memory maker and the memory keeper.
I am the shepherd to my flock,
        the lover to my spouse,
        the first, the middle, the last of my line.
Who am I?
Lisa Jane Fugate Bond

Hoptown Writers

So when I joined this group is was a whim.  Now I see it is hekping me get it together again.  I.ve written more in the last 2 months than I have in years. 
This is for Stevie, my husband- whom I love more than life itself!

I Wish I Was Brave Enough

I see you
up ahead
shirt flapping,
cap on backwards.           Momma always said
                                       "wear your seatbelt,
                                        lock the doors,
                                        accidents happen close to home."
I see you
sitting so relaxed,
feeling the sun
warm on your face.         Momma always said
                                      "wear a hat on your head.
                                       don't forget the sunscreen,
                                      you'll burn you know."
But I see you
and I wish,
just for a moment,
that I was brave enough
to hop on the back of your bike
and embrace life....

I see you.

Julie

This is a poem I wrote 15 years or so ago.

Time passes all too soon.
Years fly past.
The only reminder-
a young girl
grown into a woman
the image

of a mother she never knew.

Worst blogger in the world!

I must be the worst blogger ever! I have procrastinated, hesitated and prayed over this.  It is as if I am having writer's block!! Really I'm not, but for some reason the closer we get to visiting with the maternal side of the family, the less I want to talk about it. 
I have joined a local writer's group and the poetry is coming back.  It makes me feel more in tune with myself.  My goal is to write a thousand words about momma within the next 2 weeks.  I may need help.
The heat is becoming unbearable! How did we manage without air as children?  I have none now and am melting daily.  The thouhgt of doing anything makes me perspire.  I recall summers growing up where we never even saw the inside of the house until supper time!! We did not sit around the television or computer, we did not play videogames.  We played outside and even those of us who were voracious readers, did that outdoors as well.  My skin did not burn or tan so I must have stayed under trees although I recall lots of running and jumping.  Skinned knees were a daily occurence and rarely required trips to the hospital.  Mom would call us in for lunch, we would run through and grab a peanutbutter or bologna sandwich and glass of koolaid and were back outside within minutes!
We built forts out of mowed grass, fairy houses out of roots, leaves and flowers and we played tag, statue, hide and go seek and duck duck goose non-stop.
When pop came home we would go in, wash up, set the table and sit down to supper.  Momma would assign us table duties like setting, clearing and washing dishes.  After supper we took baths, 2 and 3 of us at a time.  We had an hour or so of television with ice cream or cookies or jello for dessert, followed by bedtime.  Momma would read to us, we read to ourselves and off to lullabye land.
As we grew older, we became more difficult getting to bed.  It was worse than herding cattle.  Bill Cosby does a bit called "Don't make me come up there"  where he talks of his wife yelling at the ceiling when the children are getting ready for bed.  It always reminds me of momma!  Procrastination was the mood and we wanted to stay up to watch Kojak, MASH and all the cool shows that they kept to themselves. If momma couldn't get us to settle down, she would do just the opposite.  We sat on the sofa, not allowed to speak, get up to go the bathroom or go to sleep.  Rarely did we balk 2 nights in a row!
Last month I watched Burlesque.  Musicals were Mom's favorite and I remember in high school being allowed to stay up and watch Natalie Wood in Gypsy.  To this day I watch each time it comes on and think of momma. 

Starting Over

I have been gone awhile and I apologize.  My intention has been to be on here on at least twice a week, but life happens and stuff gets in the way.  So here I go again. 


While busy recouperating from surgery, I tried to visualize momma sick.  Sounds weird, I know, but I don't recall her ever being sick enough to stay in bed.  Not until the cancer at least.  I cannot think of a single time she needed aspirin for a headache, pepto for a stomachache, or anything else.  If she did, we were not made aware of this.  Which brings me to my point. 
Why do we (and I include myself) relish in regaling others with our maladies?  Is it for the sympathy?  Maybe to show how "stout" we are to persevere through such trials.  But it is something we all do.  Everyday to some extent.
I don't remember momma complaining more than once.  She stood on her feet most days at work.  Eventually it caught up to her and they began to hurt.  I remember her being upset because all that could be done for her foot pain was surgery and she did not have time for that.  With that the conversation ended.  We might catch her rubbing her feet, but she didn't complain.  Her hands had callouses from weeping, mopping and keeping a garden, but I never noticed a bandage covering a blister or cut. 
Momma was what would have been known as a staunch New Englander.  She just carried on, no matter what.  There was work to be done, children to tend and life to enjoy.  She did not have time to be sick and lie in the bed.
So,in retrospect, I would love to be able to give her one day just to lie around, read a book and listen to music.  No worries, no pain, just life.
But then again she has that now.  No one deserves it more.  She worked hard, loved her family and never complained.  Would that we all could emulate her.
Happy Mother's Day, Momma- I miss you as much today as I ever have.

Momma

Momma was somewhat of a radical.  She was an Irish Catholic from New England who just happened to marry a Tennessee Hillbilly.  I often wondered why the fur didn't fly on regular occasions. 
I remember being in Germany towards the end of the Vietnam Conflict '71-'74 and momma was bagging groceries at the post commissary.  You could spot her a mile away - she was the only one in a white jacket with a peace sign painted on it!! There are patches that read "War is not healthy for children and other living things", "Make love not war".. you get the idea.  I still have the jacket.  The collar is frayed and it needs new cuffs, but the artwork is still intact and that is what matters.
One year for Fasching (German equivalent of Mardi Gras) she went as Pippi Longstockings to a costume party and at Christmas she was always called upon to paint the neighbors windows.  Pop was a medic in the ortho dept and so she would paint him putting a cast on Santa, the mp across would be arresting Santa and so on.  She was really talented and could draw anything freehanded.
She sewed most our clothes and when traveling would dress us in basically the same thing - even the boys!! Our last trip to Germany she had a bolt of sea green corduroy - I remember it well.  I wore bell bottoms and vest with a bright yellow body suit, Diana did the same.  John and Ron had bell bottoms with jackets and yellow turtle necks, while Jenessa had a jumper with yellow turtle neck!  Not the most attractive colors, but cheap and she could pck us out of a crowd at any airport! 
She shared her love for the arts with all of us.  We were always encouraged to create in some manner, be it on paper, with music or on stage.  She was there for us, hung our art, sat and listened to cracked notes sing and supplied costumes for school plays.
She may have worked all her life outside the home, but she always had time to support us emotionally and managed to see to it that we gave our all in everything we did. 
Thanks for that, momma.

Little Boy Blue

I was active in all things theatrical in high school and that included the speech and debate team. I was too amiable to be much of a debater so our speech team teacher, Barry W., suggested I try poetry.  Wow!! Contests based on how you read and interpret poetry? Unreal! So I thought I would start with one that was familiar to me: Little Boy Blue by Eugene Field.  Sometimes momma would recite poetry to us at bedtime instead of books.  After reading it through a few times, Barry suggested I look up some interpretations as I wasn't quite "feeling" it.  I did.

To say that I was shocked would be an understatement.  All those years my mother recited poetry about a dead child! I could not believe it!  I asked her about it and she simply replied with a question:  "How did you feel  when you heard the poem?" "Did it make you sad?" "No".  "Were you upset that the boy just left his toys?" "No". "Why?"  "Because I thought he grew up, that's all."  "Then that all that matters.  How you felt at the time.  Now you will see it through someone else's eyes.  It is up to you to decide how you want them to feel in the end."

Little Boy Blue by Eugene Field

That was momma.  She would hand you something and wait to see what YOU made of it.  Sometimes I thought that was mean, but now I think it was awesome.

Creating a hat for a contest - yep still winging it at 50+