Living in the Moment

Yesterday only exists in our minds and tomorrow doesn't exist because it hasn't happened yet. That said, all we truly have is now and we must embrace it and be the best "now" we can possibly be.

The Hero Protagonist?

A reminder, and this is probably more for me than it is for you: depending on the character arc you choose for your protagonist... s/he does not necessarily have to be the hero, just the protagonist.

Definition of LOML

LOML (Love of My Life): an acronym pronounced as Lomul or sometimes Lomie, depending on the mood, the atmosphere, or whether it’s the subject of the sentence or the adverb, i.e.   Lomie is my Loml. Yeah… I love my Lomie!

Teaching Tolerance

This is something I wrote, a while back, as a response to a social media post that one of my friends shared. The post basically read… If you’re being bullied, stand up for yourself and stop relying on others to fight your battles for you. Of course, I had to respond:

I remember those kids, each and every one of them, that were picked on, bullied, and thumbed down because of economic status, physical appearance, or the color of their skin. Their humble dispositions allowed us, as children, to either prey on them or turn a blind eye to those that did, causing a rift in not only their souls but ours as well. 

But now, as adults, we must address this particular issue, not only from the side of the oppressed, to help them gain self-worth and confidence in themselves, but also from the side of the oppressors, who don’t always realize the depth of the hurt they create and cause. We must teach all of our children to be proud of whom they are, but we must also teach them to respect those who don’t quite fit into the mold that society is trying to press them through. 

Love and kindness are more than just virtues, they are the building blocks of a more tolerant and understanding society that I, for one, wish to be a part of.   

Killing Darlings

After staring at Chapter Nineteen, at the top of the page, and a blinking cursor for weeks, it suddenly came to me that the words not coming were not the actual problem. The problem was the words I had already penned. I subsequently realized I had written myself into a creative corner, so to speak. Time to kill some darlings!

The day the creek went sterile

You may not remember when all the fish died on Pond Creek, but I do. And you’ve probably never even heard of Pond Creek, but as a young boy in Eastern Kentucky, I remember catching creek chubs, horny heads, suckers, an occasional catfish, and if you were lucky, a small-mouth bass on nothing more than bread-balls, cheese, or worms. 

And then, one day, the creek went sterile. It took more than ten years for Pond Creek to recover from the foam of death and the black silt that destroyed an entire ecosystem. I remember the sludge from the coal slurry, toxic, thick, and blackening the waters of the creek as I sat on the bank, watching, but not understanding. 

Growing Up in the Hills of Appalachia

I was raised on Pond Creek in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, where daylight happens early, like everywhere else, but the sun doesn’t actually show itself until sometime closer to noon.  By that time, the roosters up the “holler” have already quieted down, and the morning mist that hangs low on the creek has all but disappeared.  

I remember sitting outside our trailer, on a worn-out picnic table, dumping handfuls of fresh picked blackberries into a sugar-filled bowl of the cheapest cereal my parents could find at the local “Piggly Wiggly” store. I’d then use the back of my spoon to smash the berries until the milk turned a purple-pinkish color. Yeah, the good old days. 

I also remember hearing the N&W locomotive coming down the tracks, long before you’d ever see it, its whistle blowing at each crossing as it slowly wound its way through the tight-knit communities of the Appalachian Mountains. Always, the engineer would wave as he passed the trailer with the kid sitting outside on the picnic table, and I, in turn, would wave back until he and the engine were out of sight.  

I listen to the hard, steel wheels of the train clacking over the expanded seams in the rail, "catunkatunk-catunkatunk", as the coal laden cars, loaded at the mine’s tipple up the creek, rock back and forth heading for the yard in Williamson, WV.  I check over my shoulder to make sure Mom's not watching, and I sneak over to the driveway.

I grab a handful of gravels and run to the edge of the yard as I glance back at the trailer, one last time. All is good, I am ten years old, and the side of this train belongs to me. I begin to sling gravels at the N in N&W. It's hard to hit a moving target, but I've done this before. The gravels hit the steel plate, some near the N, some dead on, and others far from the target. It doesn't really matter to me, I'm throwing rocks at a train.

After a couple handfuls of gravels, I know to stop and wait for the caboose. Why? Because the man in that caboose will throw candy to me, out of the window, as long as he doesn't catch me throwing rocks at his train. Fair enough.

I find that these hills and valleys of Appalachia have a way of holding on to my soul, whether I want them to or not. Once touched by them and nurtured by them and raised by them, I can never escape their presense, no matter how far I run. They are a part of me forever, and they’ll always be home, no matter where I choose to live.