Junkyard Quotes

Junkyard Quotes

Week 3
 #1
There are more ways than one to climb a mountain
(My daddy used to say there are more ways than one to skin a cat - I like this one better when facing a challenge that has to go to Plan B)

#2
A half truth is still a whole lie. 
(On a church sign, tried to explain this to my husband.  He didn't get it.  Tried to explain it to my church high school kids, they got it.)
#3
Every one can be a witch.
(A quote from a movie, but meaning everyone can look at a situation and figure out a solution)

#4
Tears streaked the dust that covered her face.
(Made this up looking at a picture of a lady crying on a cattle drive)

Week 4
#1
Why do we crave the words "I love you"?
(asked this of my high school kids at church last Wednesday.  I want to write about the answeres I received!)

#2
I sent a text to my brother on Valentine's Day saying "I love you".  He texted back "I am praying for you"
(Your thoughts, I didn't get it.)
#3
It's so important to make someone happy.
(the world according to Debra and something I try to do everyday)

#4
As long as the longest river that makes its way to the sea.
(read in a book and thought of forever, unconditional love, looking at someone you love, those things you want to hold on to forever)

Week 5
#1
Not paying attention to your education will cause you to spend your future trying to learn what you were not paying attention to in school. 
(go figure)

#2
Love -- Live --- Laugh
(seen on so many plaques, plates, signs, picture frames, etc.   my thoughts we have to live or die and choosing to live, if we then love we will most definatly laugh)

#3
Best boat ever
(Spoken by my son who bought a little plastic boat at the thrift store for $1 and put it in the tub and it really floated!!! there's a story here!)

#4
Week 6
The kids see your face too much already!
(spoken by my pastor when he tried to cut a class and I offered to teach it)

Free Entry

Accord of Patience

The mourn of the native flute soars

Through old and new, flat and tall,

As a whisper, dancing and crawling as its

Story begs, pleads, hear me pale, dark mass,

You that polluted our Mother and twisted

Our ways useless have borne the shame.

Tradition still learned by those who hear,

Of a proud, respectful and brave people

That lived in harmony with Mother,

Father and The Wise One Above. 

Onward pushed by the Oppressor, our ways

stripped by those who challenge the Spirit

and forced to mimic the pale ways.  Our lodge

fires crushed, unadorned clothing without purpose or

the caress of a creative hand, our tongue silenced,

the ceremonial prayers choked as rope

fashioned in a noose, swinging.

Look, pale dark mass, what you have done

With your plunder.  While you breed and

Spread your sickness, we feed our fires and

Tend our young, unpolluted to your rot.

And wait, as Mother slowly restores us as Her keeper.

Free Entry

Sea of White

Clusters satisfied by the sun and

Rain, burst open across the field

To create the sea of white.

Each wave tended by its keeper,

bending, dark, singing  songs of

the tired and weary as their

Heads bobbed, up, down, up, down.

As a child, the warm earth under the white

Waves was my play spot. The keepers

Tended me and Daisy as they pulled

The foam, stuffed it in coarse burlap sacks

Strapped to their backs.  When the sun

Touched the top of the split rail fence,

we sprawled under the shade,

like the chosen twelve around the last table.

I tried, as the twelve, to put order to what was

Before me.   Too young, too simple.

As my hem touched the warm ground,  I

Was forbidden to play in the white sea.

Daisy no longer my childhood friend

But Maid to her Mistress and our childhood

Chatter grew up as I became my mother.

Standing on the hill above the white sea, I

Watched papa watch the waves, as the keepers

Removed the foam, and pondered his promise.

I would captain the white sea, soon, for

My time had been appointed.   Tend the keepers

Of the sea and the land as your little one and it

Will fill you with strength, pride, grit. 

Papa did not feel the slight stirring of the air

On this day of promise, but did I.  His world as

Clear as his conscious, but not I.  The tending

Of my childhood was not consumed by the

Length of my skirt or the drawing room

Speeches.  It was a tender painting of

Shared laughter, cornbread, grass and

Shade on a hot summer day when the

need of freedom  was not recognized by

Two children in a sea of white.

FREE ENTRY

I Believe

Debra Kelley Richardson

“I believe Sweet Jesus, I believe” said Ganny as she laid her blue hands on the red words of The Bible.  Ganny was seated at the formica table in the center of the kitchen that had fed, prayed and talked through three generations and had the battle scars to prove it.  This was grand central but the screech of the female Carolina wrens and mountain blue birds as they prepared breakfast chimed the early morning hour.  Soon Rosie would be in from the barn with eggs and milk which signaled the official start of the day.  “Jesus, I know you have a plan, I know you have my heart and I know You will guide me to a decision that is wise, fair and within Your will.  See me through Sweet Jesus, see me through” Ganny prayed as she reverently closed the big black Bible that was inscribed Reverend Evan E. Kent.  Her late husband’s Bible.  The very one he was holding when his heart gave away to a joyous journey ten years ago leaving Ganny alone until Rosie arrived.

Betty and Evan Kent had been blessed with six wonderful children, five boys and one girl.  The fifty years since the joining of two completely different cloths to form one merged seam were surreal and ordinary in the same breath.  Evan had known he would preach the Gospel since he could talk and Betty had the flame of mischief burning from her soul outward.  Somehow the cogs in the machine of time had fit together to form the most perfect connection.  Not the gold dusted fairy tale, because trials had been a daily occurrence, like a check mark on the calendar.  But the overwhelming beauty of the simple quality of life, like a lace tablecloth over a plain white sheet, was almost like asking for too much.  The family had lived on forty-two acres of farmland that had belonged to Betty’s family for seven generations.  The gift of the forty-two acres was the water to the flame of Betty’s desire to see, do, experience, live and feel anything life had to offer outside the city limits of the small country town.  Evan captured the energy Betty felt into understanding that life is about giving, storing up for the future outside this world.  That while they lived here and life could be filled with blessings, setting aside treasure for the timeless home in heaven was essential to breathing.  Thus Betty became known in the small little town for her kindness, generosity and tender ways beholding the wife of the preacher.  But the tiny embers of mischief were still glowing when on occasion the preacher would be the recipient of a form of retaliation that always had a lesson but turned into a great joke, like with Belle the barn cat asleep in the pulpit one bright, sunny Sunday morning when Evan had promised to make the congregation believe in hell.  It was a good thing Betty could sew. 

Each flower that bloomed during the first 15 years was as precious as the last.  Five boys, a mother’s dream!  Each with the complacency of Evan’s warm character and molded in his steadfast morals, they were her own football, baseball and basketball team.  The could hit a homerun and pick vegetables on the way to home plate.  Score a touchdown and deliver a calf during halftime.  Shoot a free throw and bring down a bale of hay when the rubber met the cork.  And, then, came Rosalyn.  The most angelic cherub ever painted by the masters could not compare.  The description of God’s most perfect messengers in their gossamer wisp of gold and pink glow that pronounced innocence, perfection and beauty not of the world were molded from the cast of Rosalyn.  Flaxen down covered her perfect head and lips the color of full summer strawberries in the raised beds out back.  Her cheeks, her cheeks were the dusting of pink angel dust that begged you to cuddle against or brush with lips and linger to sing a tribute to her sweetness.  Daddy’s angel, bearer of anything pink and mother to all babies with cardboard cribs.  She could also out ride, out run and out fight any boy within a bike riding distance and rumor was, as far as the next town.  But Rosa had Mama’s flame.  And the older she got, the brighter it burned.  On Rosa’s eighteenth birthday, Reverand Evan E. Kent was buried in the little cemetery beside the little white church.  On the day after Rosa’s eighteenth birthday, she was gone.  A white note on the white lace was all Betty found the morning after Evan’s funeral and she grieved.   The bold writing on the note was all she could see but she knew the words.  Evan was Rosa’s glue and his death had loosened the molecular makeup that kept her at home.

Nine years later, Rosa came home.  But only to deliver a package and as history repeats, the next morning she was gone.  The package was tall, gangly, blond and cherubic and her name was Rosie.  She became the star in Betty’s sky.  At Rosie’s arrival, she became the thirteenth grandchild and while Betty cried for the lost Rosa, she thanked God for the blessing of Rosie.  Now, a year later, Betty had begun suffering mini strokes and for the first time in her 79 years, Betty was afraid.  She knew that if she died she would go to heaven, no concern there, her mansion was built and crown lay on velvet.  She knew if she went away five wonderful young men would fight, literally, over who would be the chosen one to care for Rosie.  And Rosie adored each of them.  No problem there.  The problem lay with Betty.  Rosie had found a home with Betty and her contentment was evident in every phase of her life.  She enjoyed the farm work, appeared to find solace in the simplicity of everyday living.  She had a way with the animals and the earth’s produce seem to be miracles to her as she worked the garden and canned it’s evidence of her loving care.  She produced above average in her school work and absorbed the wisdom of her teachers by filtering what was given and fashioned her own bank of needed knowledge to carry her to the next level.  It was like watching a construction of the perfect vessel of a young lady with purpose.  Betty wanted to continue as the architect, because she felt God leading her to help fashion her for a more divine purpose.

As Rosie came in the back door, shiny bucket in one hand and Betty’s old woven basket in the other, her smile backed up the morning sun that had begun drifting through the yellow and white curtains shading the kitchen window.  “Good morning for eggs and milk Ganny!!!  This will keep you busy while I’m at school!” Rosie exclaimed as she carefully set the morning’s bounty on the kitchen table.  “But save the butter for me.  I want to try your mama’s butter mold with the swan when I get home.”  Such excitement over an old butter mold.  “Rosie, I have something to talk to you about this morning” Betty said with a degree of solomness that had Rosie turning her head in surprise.  “Ganny, I can see your eyes and your worry.  You will be fine, God has not called you Home and He still has work for you.  Besides, Papa told me I would be your angel here and that my job would be you.”  Rosie spoke with wisdom way past her 8 years but something she said lingered in my thoughts.  “Papa” or the Reverend Evan E. Kent had died ten years ago.  And Rosie’s eight years would not have allowed her to know her Papa.  How had he told this blessing anything?  The answer to all my questions lay in front of me in the form of a gifted little girl, sent from heaven, to carry on my work.  Placed in my hands to mold and shape in the ways of the sinless One that was also sent to this earth.  To carry on as a breath of tender air in a gasping world.  God would be through with me when He had prepared her.

Response to Classmates Journal

Classmate Response

Kay Lowry  Free Entry Week 4

The reworking of this writing added so much detail!  I am amazed at the clear picture I have received while reading this piece.  The writer has obviously spent a great deal of effort to allow the reader to not only view the situation but receive an insight into the people we are reading about. 

I especially like the comparison of the television program to watching the boyfriend play the video games.  It is an extra touch that brings the piece together because the focus on the stripes on the couch as the central theme is clear because of the choices actually presented. 

While reading the piece over several times, some areas could be reduces without losing the touch of creative words.  The two sentences describing the actually playing of the video game became a little lengthy because I wanted to hear more about the main character’s feelings. 

I also have a desire to know what the character plans to do about this boring relationship.   I love the insert about the gas which means thought is being put into what the relationship is costing.  This is a great abstraction to show cost and you can feel the depth by these words.  Also, “this time I can’t seem to sit still” is another great example of showing some sort of finale or relationship changing event is on the horizon. 

The writer used great creativity in describing this situation.  I enjoyed the rereading.

Classmate Response

Super Long Free Entry

I read this piece not entirely expecting what I received.  Even though the writer has placed a high amount of emotion on the tone thermometer, I feel the relevance to the overall success of the piece is dependent on that depth of emotion. 

The writer has done an excellent job of combining the cooking of the father’s dish to weave into the story of her brother.  Using the actions of cooking the eggplant as an excellent allegory of the abuse of the brother.   But I want to know more background to be able to understand the hatred, if one may call it that, of the father to the brother.  The writer may want the reader to wonder about this and be a piece of the story the reader must work out for themselves, however,  while I understand the father has issues, I want to know more about the brother.

The strategy used by the writer of incorporating cooking the eggplant as a façade to the telling of a childhood story shows a creative style of writing that I feel is awesome.  It takes a great deal of concentrated effort to stay on track and present a well written story that is actually two stories in one and present in a way that is absolutely clear to the reader.  This piece does so admirably.  I particularly was impressed with how this writer managed to present a father that appeared to have a just relationship with his daughter but presented as a monster to the brother.  That is why I question the lack of details concerning the background of the family.  Also, where is the mother during these trials and why is the story not telling of her involvement?  The writer may deem this character as useless to the point and I accept, however, I became so involved, I want details.   If sirens and hospital stays are a part of the story, shouldn’t the mother have to answer for this?  The imagery of this occurrence is well presented, however, not how or why.  The connotations are endless in this perception and I ask if the writer purposefully leads the reader to this point.

As with most short stories, a reader can cross out irrelevant bits and pieces of another’s story but in the case of this story, I feel it is not fair to implicate excessive writing.  The story appears to move down the page with relevance and leave the reader begging for more. 

Classmate Response

Daniel Jackson Week #7

The symbolism and similes throughout this writing blew me away!  I had to read, reread and reread to be able to put everything in perspective.  The creativeness that comes out in this is fantastic, however, the normal reader, as I consider myself, will struggle. 

What is your idea or focus?  Why are you experimenting with the particulars of grammer and body parts?  Is there an underlying emotion, theme or layer of tone the reader may pass over without realizing it? 

The writer uses a great deal of creative imagery but forces the reader to create a mental development that may or may not match what is put on paper.  I understand progression but feel I am just on the verge of a revelation about this writing but am wavering to make the fall.  As a reader that ultimately looks and works for a purpose, I may not be the best one to analyze this writing, however, I do know creative word use when I see it and this is amazing.  The style is fresh and very modern and a great read for the imaginative reader.

This writing also has a rhythm to it and the author was very creative in reflecting this style through figurative language.  The language is just popping all over the place like mini explosions that makes one want to rush to the next line to see what happens next.  However, it does take an innovative reader to appreciate the complexity of the writing.

Classmate Response

FREE ENTRY

The Blue Room

The little blue room its desires shattered,

Prophecy of lullabies and little wheels that turned

Are curtains closed, torn and tattered.

New cedar, gleaming like angel wing tips

To brighten the little blue room, pristinely arranged

As two shiny coppers placed on the eyes, lips

Perfectly seamed but lifeless, dull, gone.

The occasional intruder to the room, careful

Not to disturb sacred ground that was once

Filled with hope, knowing one, prayerful,

Still seeks redemption.  Day by Day, open a

Door of purpose to nurture the empty space.

I have a plan, He said, for My acclaim, to tend

Your faith and reveal My Grace.

The bell delivers a promise of a miracle, soon,

A gift with no ribbon but ringed in innocence, the

Answer, the intention, of the little blue room.

Constant in belief, your legacy will continue as

A sacred road of gold, like the fair crown

Soon to be brushed with lips that whisper

Thank You Lord for drifting grace down.

The little blue room is bustling, breathing,

With tiny wheels that turn, green, yellow.

Pulse of laughter, whine of teething,

Animation comes to life and the door of

Purpose is covered in ABC’s and 123’s,

Bold, black marks build a yearly ladder,

That all focus on the point of grace, Kelley

READING RESPONSE