The Rest of the Story

Hi people! Well, the KC trip turned out to be life-changing. I saw my parents. The same parents that I haven't talked to in nine years. And...they apologized to me. I can't explain what that meant to me, so I won't even try. Anyway, we're working on a relationship - slowly, but surely. They've changed a lot and so have I. I even got some fatherly advice from my dad for the first time in my life.

It meant almost as much as the apology.

Love,
Babs

Kansas City Here I Come

I'm leaving tomorrow on a trip to Kansas City - my childhood home. I lived there until I was 15. I'm 40 now. If you do your math correctly, I have been in Arkansas 25 years. If you do the math incorrectly, you come up with the square root of 7.

I haven't been to KC in years. I really can't remember the last time. I've avoided it because it always reminded me of the nightmare that was my childhood. But there are good memories tucked in there and I need to explore them. Besides, I have family members up there who love me and accept me for the little heathen I am, and I'm terribly excited to go see them.

I think I'm ready to face this part of my past and embrace the good. I am going to go visit those places that were important to me: the house I grew up in, the rivers, the rail yard, a few restaurants, my old school, a park or two and maybe even a church. I'll do my best to remember the good times and let the bad memories fall to the wayside. I'm tired of clutching them in my fists.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

Much Love,
Babs

Spelling, Schmelling

I was talking to a friend today and he was telling me about a sign he saw. A sign he should have taken a picture of, but didn't. It was a sign for a proofreading business. A simple sign. Very simple.

It read:

Provereading here.

Grease Is The Word

You know how a couple of weeks ago I wrote the enthralling epic about Michael Jackson showing up in a greasy pan? Well, I guess Jesus read my blog and got jealous about all the attention MJ was getting so he decided to make his own greasy appearance. Oliver Billerby of Yorkshire discovered the big J after cooking a hamburger. Excuse me, after burning a hamburger.

It's probably just me, but does it look like Jesus is eating the head off another person? Maybe it's some kind of freaky communion ritual, or maybe it's just that I'm heavily medicated.

Nah. Jesus definitely just ate someone's head. Nom. Nom. Nom.

Later,
Babsadoodle - who KNEW Jesus read her blog!

Church Sign O' The Week

The ever lovely Kathleen sent me a picture of this church sign. I'm not sure I have words to describe it.

Wow, Church Sign Guy! Who knew you were such a redneck? I think next week the sign should read, "Open a can of whoop ass for Jesus".

Yeefuckin'haw,
Babs

Memory Loss is Groovy

Yesterday I was going through some old documents on my almost broken and very decrepit PC. I came across this list and I have no idea why I have it. I seriously don't remember writing it or why I would need it. So, I'm going to share it with you just to give it some kind of purpose. Also, if you leave a comment you have to use one of these phrases in it.

Keep on truckin’
Right on
Bad
Boogie
10-4 good buddy, over and out.
Can ya dig it?
Dyn-o-mite
Far out, man.
Foxy mama
Funky
Gimme five
Slap me some skin
Groovy
Jive Turkey
Joshin’
Outta sight
Sit on it
Up your nose with a rubber hose.

I was obviously having some freaky 70s flashback.

It really is far out, man.
Babs

A Poem

I just wanted everyone to know that my silence over the past week or so is because I got nothin'. I don't know if it's a lack of material, writer's block or just having the blahs, but I don't have a single thing to write about other than writing about not having anything to write about.

So, I'll share one of my poems. At least it will fill up space.

Constant Company

The dead are here. They breathe
on white sheets that I clip
to a cotton line, and suck the water
from coarse towels. They sit quietly
between rows of beans and glazed tomatoes;
filter dark earth through fingers
that once picked green peas from the vine.

The dead are here. They wait
until I pass through the shaded doorway
so they can whisper on my neck.
The words are indistinct,
yet I know they carry with them
the wisdom I have yet to attain.
It is there on the edge of my mind
waiting to find its way to my lips
like a name that one forgets
only to have it drop
from those spaces in your memory
where thoughts go to hide.

The dead are here. They rest
on faded red cushions and watch
as I soap the baby in the cool white sink.
Taste as I stir the pot of soup;
tell me when I’ve added too much salt.
They bring me notes from an unseen place
as I sit at a piano whose keys
are smooth from years of play.
And when night falls, the dead
gather on the edge
of sheets that smell like the sun,
and listen
as I read aloud these words.

Love,
Rachel