My Mojo is Back ... Yeah Baby!

Okay, I haven't posted anything lately that relates to the book, so I figured I should get back on track. 

Of course I will continue to mix things up a bit.  I aim to impress not depress with a litany of fine literary musings.   I am a hot mess of a trip.  I crack myself up, but I digress ...

It has been a little over four years since I started working on the book and there were a slew of bumps and hurdles along the way.  They say that death comes in threes, and that's exactly what happened.  Shortly after my mother died, her 1st cousin died and then my father's mother passed.  This all transpired within the span of two years, and I just couldn't bring myself to write.  It's weird because I initially approached the project with so much energy and enthusiasm that I thought the book would be completed in a year.  It's shocking how life can take a toll on you to the point where you're no longer motivated.  Life kicked me in the backside, and I just decided to lie down so it could get a real good view, make sure that it wedged its boot in really good.  I was physically and emotionally drained.

Nevertheless, I never once stopped thinking about the project; it was always on my mind, and I would periodically attempt to crack open my laptop and write or post something on the Google group, but I just couldn't do it, at least not as regularly as I would have liked.  Emotionally, I just wasn't ready. When I attempted to write my own entries, I would breakdown before I could complete a sentence.  

I did manage to write a few things here and there but those writings were, until recently, incomplete.
 
I threw myself into both work and school to cope, and I welcomed the distractions, no matter how fleeting they were.

Ironically, I didn't really start to miss my mother, really miss her, until about 2 years after she had died.  By that time, I had completed school, had a salaried position and my own apartment.  I had achieved the goals that I had set for myself at the time, so I slowed down and when I did, her absence was greatly felt.

I cannot recall exactly what reactivated my mojo.  I was definitely concerned that those whose submissions were selected for the compilation would want to know what was going on.  I certainly would.  I didn't want to give anyone the impression that the book was merely a scam to steal others' work.

I think that there was something going on internally that also made writing a bit easier. Perhaps it was just time passing to the point where it hurt a little less, yet the pain tended to resurface with the same degree of intensity at times, sometimes hurting just as much as it did when she had first died.  Time cannot be the sole answer.

 It may very well be a combination of various factors that twisted the top off of the creativity bottle and allowed the juices to flow again.  Whether it was time, concern about reconnecting with those who had made submissions, and/or a particular individual (Mr. Archbold) who whispered words of encouragement into my ear, one thing is definitely for certain.  I got my mojo back ya’ll!

The Destitute Have Grown Bold

Gone are the days when I could walk the streets and passive aggressively deny the neighborhood beggar the meager remains of my paycheck, could ride the train and merely close my eyes to evade the pleads of the less fortunate, who, despite the obvious movement of my eyeballs behind closed eyelids, took the hint and moved along. The times have changed, for I was verbally attacked by a vagabond.

As the 2 train’s car door opened, he entered, pushing a shopping cart filled with his preferred trinkets. Everyone, including myself, watched anxiously as an unlit torch protruded from a mound of blankets, tattered clothes, key chains, and approximately 4 pairs of aged, Puma sneakers. He immediately began the shtick that all New Yorkers have grown accustomed to. He began to work the car as he spewed poetic gibberish that poked fun at every creed and denomination. As the car pulled into every station, the shopping cart with unlit torch and accompanying items, banged into the guardrails, which rattled seated passengers.

Despite my attempts to avoid eye contact, our eyes met in what can only be described as a carnivorous trance. He looked in my direction a few times before, but our mutual gazes hadn’t locked. I was actually heading to Brooklyn College and was dressed in a blazer, jeans and pointy, kitten heals with my hair pulled back into a ponytail. With our gazes locked, he neared me and exclaimed, “You’re a very pretty girl, but you have an ugly attitude.”

What the hell? I was terribly vexed, to say the least and proceeded to argue with a homeless man. My mother always told me to keep my mouth shut in such circumstances, but I just couldn’t help it.

“What? Kid, you’re homeless. You don’t know me from a hole in the wall. How you

know I have an attitude? Please!”

“I know your type. Think you’re too good. High yellow ass.”

“What? Say’s the homeless cat with the torch! You’re homeless, man. You ain’t got nothing on me, freaking nut!”

Should you ever find yourself in a similar predicament, please use caution and not entertain the aimless ramblings of a torch toting nut on the number 2 train. You may have already seen him. Be forewarned.

Old School Cookouts!

I’m a homebody. This is very true, but there is nothing that I enjoy more than an old school cookout. My family is from the South, and I can recall the numerous cookouts I’d attend during our summer visits to South Carolina. There was a smorgasbord of Southern culinary delights: catfish, whiting, fried shrimp, cornbread, potato salad, and peach cobbler … pretty much everything that could cause diabetic shock. My family is big on cooking. We’d always have a nice spread.

More than the food, I enjoyed both the company and the tomfoolery. The Lewis clan is rather large and the only time that I’d get to see all of my cousins, aunts, uncles etc. was during the summer. Both of my parents are from the South and we’d split our vacation between visits to my father’s folks and then my mother’s, spending a week with each clan.

My dad’s parents lived in Little River, South Carolina. My grandmother owned a stretch of land on which all of my father’s siblings had built their homes, a combination of trailers and wood panel houses. The road leading to the homes, which were less than 100 feet apart, was unpaved. As we drove toward my grandparents’ house, my father would delve into an impromptu history lesson. The land was allegedly once a slave plantation (I haven't been able to confirm this claim). Hidden amongst the trees adjacent to the dirt road leading to my grandparent’s house, were a slew of wooden stumps marking the spots where houses once stood. As we drove aside one particular location that was riddled with wooden slabs protruding from the ground, my father told us that our great grandparent's home once stood on the spot. The slabs were the reminants of the house's foundation.

When we'd pull up to my grandparent’s home, there would be two billowing lines of smoke trailing behind the car, the side effect of driving on a dirt road.

We’d always arrive around the 4^th of July, which is when one of my aunts would host a fish fry. There would be folks all around the house, in the front yard and the back, munching on fried whiting and shrimp. My uncle would light up the grill to charcoal burgers and hotdogs. We'd be outside until the early morning.

My cousins and I would venture off along the road barefoot, walking from house to house, the dirt making its way in between our toes. In hindsight, it probably wasn't a good idea to go off by ourselves. Although an aunt or an uncle always knew our whereabouts, the area was heavily wooded, and pitchblack ... we were an adventurous group of girls--my cousins and I.

As we walked, we kept a look out for snakes. We had encountered one in the past and went off running and screaming back toward my aunt’s house. A cousin claimed to have heard us hollering from up the road. You’d think that someone would have come to see what we were yelling about …

During our walks, we would reach Cousin Net's house. There were two graves in her front yard, off to the right in front of the woods. From what I can recall, the deceased had no blood relationship with the family. I'm not quite sure who they were, but they were layed to rest in Net's front yard. There was actually a graveyard a little ways from her house; all that separated her home from the graveyard is a small wooded area. Both the graveyard and the graves in her yard have been there for as long as I can remember.

We were adventurous but not that adventurous. Once we reached the woods near Net's home, we would begin the journey back toward the cookout, where we would load up our plates once again before searching for something else to get ourselves into.

The Time We Share

A year after my mother passed, my father remarried. There is some debate about the length of his relationship with his current wife, but I do not care to entertain such ill thoughts ...

It was incredibly difficult to watch my father and his “girlfriend” gallivant about town, partaking in activities that he had frowned upon when my mother, his wife of 44 years, was alive. I honestly believe that my father’s actions/behavior took more of a toll on the family than my mother’s passing. I suppose my siblings and I were all looking for him to take on the patriarchal role. We viewed our father as the alpha male, tight with a dollar (he’d squeeze a quarter until the eagle cried), spanked us into submission, objected to his wife working, never washed his own clothes, and was served his dinner and breakfast ...

My father didn’t have to lift a finger when my mother was alive. He worked, came home, and then sat in his recliner and channel surfed while my mother waited on him hand and foot.

Shortly after my mother’s passing, the tides began to shift a bit more than I had anticipated. My father had to take care of himself. Granted I cooked and cleaned, he had to prepare his own meals on those days that I arrived home late from school or work. He now had to personally pay bills (my mother would often fill out the checks/money orders and mail them out), he stayed at home alone (he had retired from his job when my mother was diagnosed). A man who was married to the same woman for 44 years was now alone.

This sense of “aloneness” puzzled me. My brother visited my father every morning and I tried my best to stay at home as much as I could to look after my father, but despite these efforts, my father was alone. When my brother would visit, my father wouldn’t want him to leave and my father would call me while on the way to school, then while I was at work, and then when I was on my way home, just to talk about nothing.

My father somehow thought that his loss was greater than ours. He felt as if the amount of years that he shared with my mother trumped the years that we respectively shared with her. I was so pissed when he mentioned this, but now as I think about it I wonder if there was some truth to it.

For the most part, all of my siblings have moved on and have excelled in their endeavors. Their success isn’t merely external but internal, as well. We have grown spiritually since our mother’s death but my father still seems the same in a lot of ways. Don’t get me wrong, my father is different (a topic for a future blog), but now that he is remarried, I see signs of the ubiquitous male bravado for which he is known.

I cannot speak for my siblings, but I do not cry as much now when I think about mother, but my father literally falls apart when someone mentions my mother’s name; he will sob in front of his current wife without any concern for her feelings, as well.

Do you think that my father’s notion is correct? Does the time shared with a loved one who is now deceased have any barring on the severity or depth of the loss and play a roll in how quickly one can move on?

A Grandmother

While seated on the Staten Island ferry on Saturday morning, a hoard of tourists snapped shots of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis island and the city skyline. I snagged a seat on the observation deck, which quickly filled with spectators of every domination and creed. From amongst the crowd, I spotted the cutest little girl in a blue stripped sun dress and pink flip-flops; she was watching a nearby family snap shots of the Statue of Liberty as the ferry neared Manhattan.

I wasn’t too sure what had attracted her to the family but as she inched closer and closer toward them, I noticed that she was looking off at the figure in the distance behind them. She wanted a clearer view of lady liberty and as if on cue, a older woman appeared and lifted the young girl up into her arms and whispered into her ear. There was an undeniable family resemblance, so I assumed that the woman was the young girl’s grandmother.

I couldn't help but smile as the young girl let her head fall onto her grandmother’s shoulder as her body sunk into her arms. It was such a genuine display of affection, this little girl trusting that she was in secure hands.

I began to wonder who my daughter would resemble. Would she be the splitting image of me, a combination of both me and her father? Would she resemble my mother?

I was also a little envious. My daughter will not get the chance to meet her grandmother. I’m aware that my child will have two sets of grandparents, so I shouldn’t feel the way that I do. She will still have the chance to do all the things that a granddaughter is supposed to do with her grandparents, like being held snugly in her grandmother’s arms in route to Manhattan while on the Staten Island Ferry. Nevertheless, the site was bitter sweet.

To Blog or Not to Blog?

I must admit that the idea of blogging is a bit off-putting. I created a blog a couple of years ago, and planned to use it as a promotional platform for the book. I created a Google group, as well. The group was a more ideal means of communicating with contributors and allowed me to email contributors simultaneously, so the blog fell to the wayside.

I do not mind having my work critiqued. I think that I am a good writer, but my spelling skills are horrible. Really, ya’ll. I cannot spell! Spell-check is my very, very, very best friend! My atrocious spelling coupled with my work schedule just made daily blogging less appealing.

When my Wheatmark Inc. Account Manager suggested that I create a blog to market the book, I thought score. I already have a blog, but then it dawned on me that I would have to actually use the blog on a daily basis and try to figure out what I would discuss and then proof what I write so that I do not make a complete @ss out of myself. Yes, my spelling is just that bad.

So this it ya’ll. This is my venture into the opinionated and hopefully non-fleeting world of blogging. More to come soon...

Almost Published

Hello all,

The book that my sister and I began working on a little over four years ago will soon be available for purchase. And We Write: Surviving Cancer is a compilation composed by a variety of individuals from India to California to New York. The entries are in an array of literary styles that uniquely convey contributors’ experiences with the disease.

Though the book is in honor of Mrs. Clara May Lewis, (my mother) who succumbed to cancer in 2006, the project is also a testament to the strength and endurance with which all cancer victims cope with a debilitating and life altering illness.
Cancer just doesn’t attack an individual; it attacks an individual and his or her loved ones. We all become victims of this disease once someone who we love is diagnosed.

I will let you all know the official release date. It will be available on Amazon.com(with available overnight shipping), Barnes & Noble’s website, Borders’ website, Books A Millions’ website, and by special order to “bricks and mortar” bookstores. It will also be available for purchase directly through Wheatmark Inc.
All proceeds from the sale of the compilation will be donated to cancer research and or cancer support services. We cannot physically fight the disease, but we can aid those who are diagnosed and financially assist research efforts.
The book will be $15.95. If you do not think that you will be able to make a purchase, then please spread the word …

Best,
Shell