Wendy's Writing Project Blog

Writing Marathon 2012 Ramblings July 6, 2012

Filed under: Uncategorized — uiwpwendy @ 1:42 pm

It stinks to be without focus. I look back at my seed ideas and still come up empty-handed. So I write about not having anything to write about.

Even by standing in the sprinkler, ideas didn’t rain down… as others look on, wondering when I’m going to finish….

Like they are now.

Listening to the sssshhht… sssshhht… sssshhht makes me think of Patrick Allen’s reference of how we sit at our kidney tables and sprinkle ourselves around… sssshhht….. ssssshhht….. sssshhht…. ssssshhht…. ssssshhht…. ssssshhht…. then back around, keeping most of the grass green but never giving our kids a good soaking… allowing their roots to growth deep within the year that we have them.


How is it that some teas taste really good and others don’t? I mean, what does it take to grow a really good tea and why haven’t the crappy tea makers figured it out?

My 95-year-old Grandma continues to wander. She’s always wandered, but now tends to fall frequently. My dad came back from town yesterday and found her out weeding along the road in 102 * temperatures. He went and got the tractor, told her it was time to take her medicine and get something to eat, put her in the wagon, and gave her a ride back to the house. I wish I had the solution for what to do with her. I wish I was there to help. Do we let her keep going on her own until it kills her, or do we put her in a home– which will kill her?

My mind wanders like my Grandma.


30 years ago this weekend you would find me grabbing a tube from the brooder house, rolling it past the sugar cane shack and down the hill to the creek. My sister and uncles would be with me. We would hold onto the tree root to slide down the bank right where Bill put the rocks to create a dam. “The rapids,” we called it. The start was the best part of the three hour trip. We would walk our tubes to the middle. Manueuver our rears in place, gasping when the cool water reached our backs. Slowly we would creep, funneled toward the opening. Then woosh… it would thrust us on our journey.


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