Well, it’s Wednesday. Time to revisit our collaborative community story.
I know there are a number of professional and amateur writers following or at least visiting this blog, so now’s you chance to contribute … and we can use your help! Lly1205 and Catherine added insight this week.
We’ve started you off by introducing Samantha on her way home. When we last left her, she had just pulled into the driveway … the same one she had pulled out of so many years ago. She grabbed her old key and opened the front door. The complete storyline thus far is on my blog, wisdomfromafather.com. Visit Wednesday Writing III. Here’s where we left off.
I thought I had a normal childhood. Dad was the light of my life, my biggest fan and supporter. And I was his little girl.
Mom was a different relationship. Even as a young girl there was a tension between us. I always sought her approval, but Mom was critical. I could get all A’s and B’s and Mom would focus on my lone C. I could get all dressed up and she would tell me my dress was wrinkled. She didn’t like my friends or my music and always dismissed my opinions. To top it off, whatever happened, the whole town knew. Mom liked to “share” at the beauty parlor, the grocery store, at church — everywhere! — although her version of events didn’t always mirror reality.
But, Mom was a great cook. She could make anything taste good.
She wasn’t an accomplished chef, but learned her kitchen skills from her Mom, who had learned it from her Mom. Recipes were guidelines and Mom always knew when to add a “pinch” of this or cut back on that.
And she included me in the kitchen, firmly teaching me the basics from early on and sharing her skills as I grew up.
I remember one time when I was around five. I had always followed Mom around the kitchen and had already learned about her critical nature. This day, however, she handed me an apron and had me help mix in the chocolate chips into the cookie dough. At five years old, that was a monumental task and a good part of the batter ended up on my once-clean apron. I started to cry, but Mom scooped me up in her arms and said, “Sam, that’s okay. That’s why we wear aprons when we cook.”
When it came to kitchen skills, Mom was open and forgiving …
There you go, readers. We still have to develop Samantha’s story. (Although we haven’t stated it yet, we’ll find out Samantha is 55 and her two children have finished college and are out on their own. She is also an occupational therapist.) What about her schooling? When did she leave “home”? What is her history, relationships, story?
All you have to do is put down your thoughts and get them to me. You can post your ideas as comments on the blog – remember everyone will see them, so the “surprise” factor might get lost – or you can e-mail me directly at firstname.lastname@example.org. Each Wednesday I will continue the story on the blog, along with that week’s attribution and periodically update Reveille/Between the Lakes readers. I hope we can have some fun with this.
THOUGHT TO REMEMBER: Forgiveness is a process. It doesn’t happen overnight.