Author Archive
DISCOVERY
DISCOVERY
The newness had scarcely worn off our honeymoon when my husband and I had a layover at my parents’ farm before making the fifty-two mile trip to his father’s lower ranch to start our lives together.
Lying in bed that night after discreetly (we thought) making love in the spare room of my parents’ house, I heard soft grunting noises in the bedroom next to ours. There was no mistaking those sounds. It was the first time I actually associated sex with my parents, despite the fact that they had raised nine kids.
I remember lying with my eyes wide open not making a sound, A chink in the log wall where dried mud had fallen out was illuminated by moonlight through the four-pane window. A chink in my armor fell out that night, too. My parents were mere mortals, after all.
What surprised me the most was the fact that Mom and Dad still participated in such acts; they had to be in their fifties. Was it possible to perpetuate sex to that advanced age? Man, was I naive
The discoveries in life are what make our writing unique. Capturing them on paper is what makes them a learning tool for others. We may not all be Albert Einsteins, but we do all have discoveries that merit being shared and preserved.
MOTHERS DAY
Mother’s Day is bitter sweet for me with both my mom and my mother-in-law gone. Yet getting to watch two generations of new mothers in my family raise their children is pure delight. I’ve often wished for a direct telephone line to heaven, especially on occasions like Mother’s Day, so I could chat with my two moms–gossip if you will–about all their sweet posterity. I can’t help but think they are up there chuckling at the children’s antics that are planting seeds for gray hairs on the heads of my daughter, daughters-in-law and granddaughters.
My mom raised nine children. I was her favorite. She never said as much; her actual words were, “You’re one of my favorites,” but I knew I was special from day one. My mother-in-law claimed she wanted me from the time I was a baby and was tickled pink when I married her son. I have a special place in my heart for both of these precious ladies and dedicate the following poem to them:
MOTHER’S APRON
By Wilma Rich
Her apron hangs on a kitchen nail.
Oh, the stories that it could tell.
A ruffle donned for a handsome groom,
Later, a shield for expanding womb.
Constant comfort for sneeze and sniff,
A corner used for a handkerchief.
Stained with sweat on a canning day,
Starched and pressed for a Sabbath day.
Demurely draped over shapely legs,
Or gathered together to carry eggs.
Filled with peas from a garden lush.
Gobbed with left-over toddler’s mush.
Flour-dusted from pumpkin pie,
Hemline damp from a tearful eye.
Smoothed to visit a mourning friend.
Where do the tasks for an apron end?
Soaking wet from a water fight,
Snatched from its nail on a sleepless night.
Flapped over food to keep flies away,
Hiding a package on Christmas day.
Strung on a child who is helping cook,
Sharing a lap with a children’s book.
Smeared with paint on move-in day,
Smudged with grains from sand-box play.
These are some of the sorrows and joys
An apron brings both girls and boys.
Only a few of the many ways
A woman’s apron fills our days.
Artistry in Action
Writing and telling stories are the same thing. The beauty is, writing can be put into videos rich with photography as seen in Lon T. Rich’s video:
Nine Mile Cowboys, Now and Then
Puns
These puns are exceptionally punny. Oops, I mean funny. I’m not sure of their source; a fellow writer (and punner), Terry Doyle, sent them to me. Wish I could take credit, but I’m not that clever.
PUNS
I changed my iPod’s name to Titanic. It’s syncing now.
When chemists die, they barium.
Jokes about German sausage are the wurst.
I know a guy who’s addicted to brake fluid. He says he can stop any time.
How does Moses make his tea? Hebrews it.
I stayed up all night to see where the sun went. Then it dawned on me.
This girl said she recognized me from the vegetarian club, but I’d never met
herbivore.
I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. I just can’t put it down.
I did a theatrical performance about puns. It was a play on words.
They told me I had type-A blood, but it was a Type-O.
PMS jokes aren’t funny; period.
Why were the Indians here first? They had reservations.
We’re going on a class trip to the Coca-Cola factory. I hope there’s no pop
quiz.
I didn’t like my beard at first. Then it grew on me.
Did you hear about the cross-eyed teacher who lost her job because she
couldn’t control her pupils?
When you get a bladder infection, urine trouble.
Broken pencils are pointless.
I tried to catch some fog, but I mist.
What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary? A thesaurus.
England has no kidney bank, but it does have a Liverpool.
I used to be a banker, but then I lost interest.
I dropped out of communism class because of lousy Marx.
All the toilets in New York’s police stations have been stolen. The police
have nothing to go on.
I got a job at a bakery because I kneaded dough.
Haunted French pancakes give me the crêpes.
Velcro — what a rip off!
A cartoonist was found dead in his home. Details are sketchy.
Venison for dinner again? Oh deer!
The earthquake in Washington obviously was the government’s fault.
WRITING THE TRUTH
(Even if it hurts)
We all want to know what the secret is to good writing. What makes a story or an article stand out? Why does it appeal to an individual, to a huge audience, to teenagers and adults alike, to the biggest critic of all, a toddler?
One secret is: having the guts to tell the truth. No matter if the subject is light or serious, entertaining or enlightening, touching or revealing–even if it’s ghastly or grueling–somewhere within the content is the writer’s personal feelings, and that’s what makes it appeal to the reader. Dare to go into your data bank and find a subject that evokes humor, hope, fury or despair and write from the heart. You might bleed all over the page, but the writing , whether a discovery or a purging, makes you feel elated, and makes the reader say, “Aha!”
The trick is to simplify. Start with a one-word passion: love, hate, hope, agony, e.g. Purify it with your own originality. Every good novel, article, memoir or outstanding piece of journalism can be narrowed down to a one-word passion. That word is in everyone’s vocabulary. We are creatures of adoption. When the word is one we like, approve of, or merely can’t deny, then we make it our own.
The truth? Try it. Who knows, yours might be the next Harry Potter, Twilight, or Hunger Games.
APRIL FOOL!
APRIL FOOL!
Hey, your alarm went off and you hit the snooze! You’re late for work and your kids missed school! April Fool! Pull up those covers. It’s Sunday, fun day, the first day of Awesome April .
Your doorbell’s ringing! April Fool! There’s no one there. Do you care? No, it’s Sunday, fun day. Amazing April has arrived.
It’s my day off, too, so I’m leaving my home page blank. Aha! Gotcha! April Fool!
I’m still here,, just taking off my thinking cap. It’s Sunday, after all, Fun day, April First. In place of a splice of life or a juicy tidbit, I’m filling my space with a poem I wrote entitled: What If Motif:
WHAT IF MOTIF
By Wilma Rich
Some days I find it hard to sort
“What ifs” and what’s of no import.
The household tasks from which I weave
My vivid tales of make believe
Keep me halfway in between
A notebook and domestic scene.
I stalk a morbid plot and think
I hear piranhas in the sink
But no, it’s not a jungle sound
It’s simply garbage going down.
Is that the swoosh of burning brush
Or just a muffled toilet’s flush?
A dryer buzzer sounding, or
A distant clang of cable car?
Do I hear burglars picking locks
Or only ticking of the clocks?
Vacuums? Cyclones? Beaters? Bears?
Ghosts down here or wind upstairs?
Fantasy makes light my day
And whisks the doldrum blahs away.
Then when I come down to earth
I know I’ve had my apron’s worth.
It’s Sunday! Go play! Write a mite and scratch that rich itch!
BLOGS VERSUS JOURNALS
I’ve kept a journal most of my life. As a writer, I prided myself on writing every day, even if it was only a catalog of what I did that day. One afternoon, I was skimming back over a few of the thousands of entries, and my first thought was: This is boring! Even I’m not interested. So I quit adding to the stacks of journals in my cedar chest, and days went by without me jotting down a single word.
Then, along came the Internet and blogs. My fellow writers were jumping on the bandwagon like flies, leaving me behind in a jealous funk. Their posts were fresh, humorous, witty and informative. They included updates of their current writing, helpful hints, interviews with authors, fascinating articles, and even videos and digital photos. Nothing like my humdrum journals. What’s more, they didn’t take up a lot of space, yet their posts were available in archives for future reference.
I’d found the perfect answer. With some help, I set up a web site. Now, my blog has taken up where my journals left off—a log for myself and my posterity. I find myself writing on a regular basis again, with ideas and thoughts flowing through my head in a steady stream, This isn’t boring, this is fun!
Spring is bursting its britches in sunny Arizona and I’m excited. Citrus trees are blossoming, bougainvillas and other flowering shrubs are in glorious array, jacaranda trees are budding. What a time for creative writing! Even with summer’s hot months looming, who would want to hold back the spring? Not I.
This video reflects this writer’s thoughts:
AND ALONG CAME APRIL
AND A CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM
Ever been tucked in bed by a toddler?
One night several years ago, I went to bed, fluffed my pillows, put on my reading glasses and picked up my latest book , relishing the opportunity to gain more insights into the literary world.
Suddenly, I heard three-year-old Mason call, “Nana! Nana!” from the kitchen of my daughter’s home where three generations of us resided
I laid my book and glasses aside and went to the door to see what the little guy wanted. Apparently, he hadn’t had enough play time with “Nana,” so I gathered him and his armload of books into bed with me, and we entertained each other for another twenty or thirty minutes.
Finally, I said, “Okay. Nana’s going to sleep now,” and I got up from bed and led him to the door.
“Wait! Wait!” He said. “I turn off the light. Get in bed.”
Dutifully, I put my book in my nightstand and my glasses in their case and slid between the covers.
“Shut your eyes,” he commanded. I shut my eyes.
“I need a kiss,” I told him.
Seconds later with my eyes still closed, I felt his feathery lips touch mine.
“Goodnight!” he called and left the room.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve been tucked in so sweetly.
WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW
One of the first and most important things I’ve learned about writing is to write what I know, whether it’s something I’m familiar with or something I have to research. Just a few of the things I know offhand are:
- A coal miner’s carbide light makes a good substitute for birthday candles in a pinch.
- You don’t plant zucchini seeds anywhere near cucumbers or pumpkins unless you want gourds.
- It is next to impossible to catch a baby duck when it darts under water.
- A car runs as well on the top half of the tank as on the bottom and won’t leave you stranded.
- As a general rule, people are kind, funny, honest and very interesting.
My goal is to constantly improve my writing and someday be able to tell a story like Melinda Hayes in her first novel: MOTHER OF PEARL (an Oprah’s Book Club choice). Here is an excerpt:
The River House was seven-gabled. Built by a Northern man so in love with Hawthorne he knew whole passages by heart. But that was all he knew.For the architect he had hired, a one-eyed Boston man short of vision in both ways literal and figurative, had built the seven-gabled house with its ass to the river…..
My personal toast for St. Patrick’s Day:
HERE’S LOOKING AT YOU
By, Wilma Rich)
May your drinks cost you nothing,
May your mug be kept full,
May the night be made merry,
May you stay on your stool.
May your comrades be witty,
May the humor be crass.
May you laugh at their jokes,
May they fill up your glass.
May you toast your old buddies,
May they answer in kind,
May they call to the barmaid,
May she bring you more wine.
May the phone quit its ringing,
May the bartender say,
“May I ask who is calling?
Maybe he’s sick today.”
May you close up the tavern,
May your curfew be late,
May your friends see you home
May you get through the gate.
May your honey pie meet you,
May she greet you and smile.
May she be glad to see you,
May she keep you awhile.
May she ask very sweetly,
“May I fix you a brew?”
May you answer in kind:
“I don’t mind if you do.”
Hope you all have a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day! March has come in like a lamb in our neck of the woods, but I remember past years when March came in like a lion–as portrayed in my poem, “Winter Wind” on my COWBOY POETRY Page. Also check out the winner of the Limerick Contest and this month’s Second Annual Cowboy Poetry Contest on my CONTEST page.
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DOWN HOME POEMS
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poems about cowpokes, country folks, too.
Poems about people just like me and you.
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Just poems about neighbors down on the farm,
Or out on the range, or digging a ditch,
folks who likely will never get rich.
The poetry may not have meters and such
And sometimes appear a bit out of touch,
But tho’ it is rustic, it also has charm
To make you feel cozy, happy and warm.
Just click on our website, it won’t cost a dime.
If you like what you see in free verse or rhyme
and want to see more, we’ll afford you the chance
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and if you’re still game, a vast amount more.
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