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Browsing Tag: #gift
I like to think that my writing is a gift I have. Y’all tell me so, and I want to believe you. You say that reading my words is just like having me in the room with you, chatting. And that makes my heart swell. Because ain’t nothing worse than pretentious writing. I have a little sign above my desk that reminds me every day to be thankful. It says, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”~Pablo Picasso I think I do. Even if I’ve had half a pot of coffee, I can write. Even when I hurt, maybe especially when I hurt, I can still write. I may not be writing about the thorn itself, but I’ll be circling it like a shark circles its prey. My other gift is my hair. It gives y’all something undeniable on which to blame my crazy. You’re welcome. It’s also a gift to me from God, that way I can shrug and say, “What’d you expect? I’m a redhead.” I think my hair was the gateway that got me here. It’s wild, and people are drawn to it. When there’s nothing else to talk about, when we’ve exhausted the weather, and what we do for a living, conversation will unfailingly turn to…
​So there’s this family I know, & they’re not normal. Allow me to explain. I’m scrolling through all the pictures of smiling faces & homemade cookies & well wishes on Christmas Day. Being as that I have no children to clean up after, I had a fairly relaxing day & could spend it mindlessly trolling the internet, looking at y’alls madness & mayhem. I got to a picture of a home I know, a home I’ve visited, a home that belongs to a family I love. In the picture was a modest tree, decorated with traditional colored lights & homemade ornaments, nothing flashy or showy about it. The tree sat on warm hardwood floors, polished to a shine. Nearby, perched on a low table, was a glass of milk & a plate of cookies. Other pictures revealed stockings hung on the chimney (with care, I imagine). The pictures themselves weren’t perfect, either, kinda blurry. Nothing was staged. But it was perfect in my eyes. I looked closer. And I saw something there. Or rather, a lack of something. Underneath the tree were just a few presents. Maybe six. Maybe there were a few more that didn’t make it in the frame. I was puzzled. Houses with children are usually overrun with presents. Even here, Johnny & I are terrible & have all of ours under the big tree in the living…
As they say on Steel Magnolias, “There’s a story there….” I’m sure you can tell what this present is 🙂 My good friend TammyLynn (the one who almost got eaten by a bull shark at Douglas last week) brought it to me this morning. Here’s what happened, although I’m ashamed to admit it. It all started last year, when I got it in my head to be a good wife & make my husband homemade biscuits. I’m not a fan of homemade biscuits (just hush) & every time I say that in the presence of a baker, they gasp aloud, & say, “You’ve never had mine!” all scandalized. I have determined that in most of my experience eating them, I have found them dry & hard. I much prefer the frozen type, it’s really hard to mess them up. Anyway, so I went to Pinterest, found the prettiest picture, & used the accompanying recipe. This particular endeavor involved putting the dough in the blender. Johnny chose that moment to walk in the kitchen & took in the scene, blender whirring, flour dusted on every still surface (including my hair). “Never seen my granny use a blender to make homemade biscuits,” he commented drily. “You might not live to see these,” I replied icily, as he beat a trail back to the living room. Well, those biscuits came out…
