Tag: Writing

Field Notes & a Failure to Thrive

Love Letters in a Murmuration

LaShelle

An Inauguration of Autumn

Joy sings rays from golden horizon,

Crimson leaves decay into dust.

Mountain peaks tease a yawn, ready for slumber,

steady a breathy song.

Breathe in—two, three. Out—two, three.

Garden keepers spin a grand finale,

in letters with infinite love,

gathering dew drops for nests of writers—

the ones who carry on.

Webs dangle from pinecone to branches,

roots tremble and bow,

for autumn’s inauguration is crowned

by curly dock’s tender rosette.

In banks are hollows of rations:

hazelnut, hickory, persimmons.

Squirrels bury and scurry,

a sermon of nature.

Was it eight or nine trips by now?

On nimble vines black bears seek

shrivels of mulberries, off-cast by starlings,

who leap like rivers over boulders,

across puffed plumes in a white haze of black murmurations.

Twenty, sixty times—more maybe?

Curling from chimneys, oak fuels warmth,

steam cashmere of lips to lips.

My bones curled up into his,

our porch a theater.

The film—a day like this.

Still Blooming, Despite the Forecast

Not Dead, Just Decorated

LaShelle


The one where my body taps out but Rob owes me matcha.

One of my biggest flaws is the deep, bone-stubborn need to do everything myself. I don’t just “like” independence, I wear it like a gold star. Top tier. Full ceremony. Fireworks optional but preferred.

I love my friends, truly. But asking for help? Barf.
I’d rather be duct-taped to a flaming lawn chair than admit I need something. I want to hang out with people because I miss them, not because my kidneys have decided to make me feel as if I went toe to toe with Ronda Rousey.

And worst of all?
Cancellation.
I hate canceling plans. It feels like a personal failure wrapped in guilt and glitter.

So naturally, when life hits the fan, I start doing the most rational thing possible: hand-washing laundry in the kitchen sink like it’s 1842. Meanwhile, my best friend is texting me photos of her top-tier, NASA-approved washing machine like, “Are you good? You know you have an open invitation right?”

No. I’m clearly not good. But I’m also not going over there. Because, stubborn.

If “pain in the ass” had a sound, it’d be me, hammering fifty crooked nails into a dilapidated bug house. Muddy boots on my feet, the echoes bouncing off trees while my husband just wants to nap for, I don’t know, ten minutes tops (or four hours, don’t judge him… or do because it annoys me). That rage tapping is not a red-bellied woodpecker. It’s DIY’ing instead of D-I-recovering.

Flash forward to the actual crisis.

Rob finds me curled up like a discarded sock on the bed. I’m too quiet, which is always a red flag. He begs me to see someone but I say no. He threatens to drag me but switches gears towards a rational adult and pulls out the big guns:

Bribes.

He offered me matcha if I’d go to the doctor. A whole bribe-drink I still haven’t collected, by the way. Justice for matcha.

The cup urgent-care handed me was labeled “apple juice,” but it was suspiciously sterile, and I wasn’t allowed to leave the office until I promised to hit the pharmacy like a good patient. Meanwhile, Nikolai (who takes zero days off from being a legendary kid) wrote a whole song on the way to the truck titled “My Daddy Was Right, He Told You So!”
Rob smirked, “If you didn’t have me, you’d be fertilizer.”

Honestly? Accurate.

Round one: urgent care.
Round two: a different urgent care.
Round three: Cipro.

Cipro, as it turns out, is my body’s least favorite hobby.

I was trying to be productive, dragging my disabled corpse to coffee shops just to write something coherent while we were still waiting for internet on the farm. (Because clearly, being near death shouldn’t affect your publishing goals.)

But instead of inspiration, I was met with that lovely, slithery heat climbing up my neck, my ears, my scalp… almost like Satan himself decided it was time to end all redheads. My breathing went sideways, and I realized:

“Oh. I think I’m allergic to antibiotics. That’s new.”
The hives took one look at my body and said, “Let’s go clubbing.”

They hit my throat, my legs, my face, and gripped my soul like it was out for vengeance. The best part? My kid smacked a sticker on my back that said DOG FOOD and I didn’t notice it until after our adventure. I mean… who needs ego when you’ve got labels and full-body histamine hell?

Rob rearranged his entire work life—again—to rescue me. Bless him and his ever-whitening head of hair.

We hit the ER, who gave me that “you’re fine-ish” vibe and sent me home with a shrug and maybe a wave. Just in time for the pharmacy to switch my seizure medication to a totally new brand. Mid-crisis. Because clearly, I was having too calm a week.

Let’s recap:

  • One raging kidney infection
  • Two urgent care visits
  • One allergic reaction
  • Full-body hives (with throat flair!)
  • Fever spikes
  • Brain on seizure roulette
  • And a surprise seizure med brand swap
  • Plus a sticker that screamed “kibble”

At this point, my body was like, “Survival mode? Nah, let’s try chaotic neutral.”

So here’s your update:
I’m not better.
I’m not worse.
I’m just seasoned… in epsom salts, binging murder mysteries, burning through the mint chocolate ice cream, and letting the weeds take over the dahlias because frankly, I’m too itchy to deal with it.

Life is currently a beautiful mix of trauma and unclaimed matcha bribes. And honestly? Rob needs to pay up because I’ve earned every drop of it.

So if you’re wondering how I’ve been:
I’ve cancelled all my plans. I’m not thrilled but I’m still blooming… with a rash, a fever, and possibly a tail, depending on the sticker.

Steeped in Sass

Nailed It

LaShelle

I was determined to hang those flower boxes. I wanted to see the fruit of my labor blooming right outside my windows—colorful, wild, and just how I imagined them. It was the last thing I thought about before sleep and the first thing on my mind when I woke up. What to plant, what colors to pair, what joy they’d bring.

Relentless. On a mission.

So off we went—Izzy and I, in her SUV. The same SUV that, unbeknownst to us, would die in the parking lot before the trip was over.

As we pulled in, Izzy asked, “Do we need a cart?”
I gave her a look. “Izzy. We’re here for me. I’m buying flowers. Have you met me?”
“Cart,” she nodded. “Maybe two.”

We wandered toward the hardware section, me running through my mental list. Rob had taken the electric screwdriver to work. I didn’t trust myself with a nail gun. That left me with my old reliable: the hammer. And let’s be honest—some women walk into these places like warriors. I am not one of them.

She flagged down a bearded employee. “Excuse me, sir? Where’s the nail aisle?”

“Depends,” he said without missing a beat. “What size you lookin’ for?”

I, with full confidence and zero clarity, replied: “Big ones.”

He blinked. “There’s a lot of big ones. How big?”

“Really big ones.” I held up a finger like I was measuring some sacred relic.

Izzy started laughing quietly behind me.

“What are you planning to do with them?” he asked.

“Bang them in,” I said. “All the wood.”

Izzy snorted.

“How big is the wood?” he asked, still trying to hold it together.

“It’s big,” I said, realizing too late how far I’d gone. “There’s several of them… I’ve gotta bang ’em in deep.”

Izzy’s face was red. She had actual tears running down her cheeks. And there I was, a married woman, miming hammer motions in the middle of the aisle, while this poor employee tried to stay professional.

He cleared his throat. “So you need nails long enough to bang the wood in deep enough for your project.”

“Yes!” I said, too far in to turn back now. “Exactly. They gotta be hung right, you know?” I gasped. “The flower boxes!”

He chuckled. “Then maybe… start with something smaller than railroad spikes.”

Izzy leaned in, whispering, “You know, it’s not the size of the nails, LaShelle. It’s the motion of the ocean.”

I didn’t miss a beat: “Izzy, as a married woman, I can promise you—that’s a lie.”

We barely made it to the flower section without collapsing from laughter.

But the joke was on me. When I got home, I found out exactly why nails that size were a terrible idea. They were too long, too thick, too wrong for the project and my poor flower box paid the price.

To top it off, my best friend Natasha decided to christen my carpentry failure with the world’s smallest hammer as a Mother’s Day gift.

I’m keeping it forever.
Every flower box has a backstory—and sometimes, it involves a lot of banging.

Critters, Chaos & the Occasional Corpse

The Things We Hide

LaShelle

Opening credits roll and the camera zooms in on a group of kids navigating a boat through a series of channels near the ocean. They’re looking for lost treasure and you can’t take your eyes off them because you’re invested. People make books, movies and T.V shows about treasure hunting (Outer Banks on Netflix for example), and viewers of all ages are on the edge of their seat.

My husband and I have very different ideas on what Treasure Hunting looks like. His version entails going through boxes in the sweltering Georgia heat while mine, involves searching for new blooms in my garden. Yet who wouldn’t want to know what’s in that old trunk, locked box, or what’s buried underneath the surface… right? So, when my husband tells me that he wants to go treasure hunting, I can see the appeal even if I’m not in the mood to join him.

X doesn’t mark the spot here and I’m usually groaning when the topic comes up. Yet when Rob has the itch, I know without a doubt that I’m getting roped into helping whether I want to or not. It also means that I am forced to reorganize inventory, so we don’t end up with a ton of junk stored inside our little house.  

Thankfully my husband grasps that even if I’m not nearly as excited as he is, it doesn’t make me any less grateful. Especially when I’m able to donate large quantities of items to those who need them most or furnish our house with unusual finds. Knowing that we possibly helped a single mother, a kid just beginning adulthood, or a low-income family in the process… is a completely different kind of treasure in my opinion. A more valuable one.

This past weekend my husband had the itch and because I knew I was going to be involved in the adventure… I decided to take a more proactive approach. I logged in online and I began to search for storage units that we could compromise on. That’s when I hit the jackpot. We would have to wake up early in order to place our bid using the coffee shop Wi-Fi, but if it all worked out… we would be busy for days.

After reluctantly rising to greet the morning sun, and refreshing the page several times, my night-owl heart fluttered when the winning banner danced across the screen. It’s not quite as glamorous as Storage war’s makes it out to be. That T.V show is dramatized to add a more competitive nature, but I will say that bidding on storage units can be a lucrative side hustle… if it’s done correctly. It’s also, a ton of work but the excitement of discovery is what makes the daunting task feel lighter.

Imagine helping a stranger move. Except that there’s no free pizza, and the payment comes only after you sell the things you find within their belongings. Unboxing, organizing, then packing it all back up again after taking several trips to the local garbage dump… and repeat. The upside (besides selling things) is not having any sentimental ties to the valuables that are in storage because it makes easy work of sorting everything.

It never fails to baffle me when we win a unit that someone has been paying on for years only to find that it’s mostly filled… with bags of garbage. What a let down! Why pay to keep things that clearly belong in a landfill? The hasty departure almost gives off an apocalyptical feel.

Contrary to what you may be thinking, poverty is not the only cause of units being listed for auction. In many instances we have discovered drug addiction to be the primary culprit. This is evident by the number of needles and drug paraphernalia that we find stuffed into old socks and bags of dirty laundry.

Other units have ended up in our possession when the previous owner has passed away. It’s heartbreaking to come across obituaries, yet these units typically contain the most significant treasure troves for just the change we’ve had in our pockets. Gold jewelry, real diamonds, full bedroom sets, brand new sofa’s, leather furniture, kitchen appliances, cell phones, computers and so much more. Stunning antiques, newspaper clippings from world events, old love letters, and items just waiting to be refinished and repurposed.

More gut-wrenching than death are the units that go to auction because of a divorce or jail sentence. Witnessing happier memories though photographs, wedding guest lists, childhood treasures, and High School yearbooks filled with hope for the future, only to see them end up in the rubble of things discarded and left behind. It’s enough to leave you twisting internally and wishing that you could save someone from themselves.

You can learn a lot about people by things they keep. Yet you can learn even more about them from the things they hide. Underneath the family photographs, and ever-changing events throughout an individual’s life, are the items that were once tucked into the back of their closet. Burner flip phones with messages to mistresses. Naughty toys, dirty magazines, and bizarre sex fetishes. We’ve identified cheating spouses in what looked like happy homes and long-term marriages, as well as sex addicts and pill-popping mothers.

Upon discovery it has at times, left me wondering if the people around these human beings knew who they really were. Yet the more I learn about humanity, the more I realize that we all have something to hide. Weather it’s the ugly parts of ourselves, some unusual extracurricular activities, or the things we do when we think that no one is looking… we’re all a little bit guilty of something. We’re all searching for acceptance and forgiveness in one form or another.    

The beauty of losing the stuff that we think is important… is that it makes space in our lives for better and healthier things. Weather it’s surrounding ourselves with the kind of people who lift us to a higher standard or finding a partner who respects healthy boundaries… we all deserve some wiggle room for growth. Who knows, maybe in losing everything, the drug (or sex) addict may finally have the strength they need to get help.

There is also a beauty in old things being made new again. Repurposing discarded items while simultaneously making the lives of other’s just a little bit easier. Perhaps a young mom who couldn’t afford to buy a brand-new pack-and-play, is able to get one because we donated what we found in a storage unit. Maybe a father that couldn’t furnish his house can have a house that’s just as beautiful as anyone else’s because of the furniture we refinished. Or perhaps someone, somewhere found healing from moving on.

The truth of the matter is that while you may not know who’s sitting next to you, I’ll bet that there’s something you regret or have kept hidden yourself. You know exactly what’s buried underneath the surface in your life. The gift is that you’re not alone. It’s never too late to box it up and throw it out.

Ya’ll have never seen my client work. Meet my amazingly talented friend Kayla who was both the makeup artist & the model for this shot that I took in my living room in the middle of summer. Her dress is one of our storage unit finds!
Critters, Chaos & the Occasional Corpse

Thief of Joy

LaShelle

I can feel sweat sliding down my neck and slipping between my breasts underneath my shirt. Its continual dribble is saturating my bra with the scent of salt crystals. My nostrils flair because I’m worried that if I can smell it, someone else probably can too. I am convinced that my brain is swelling and smooshing against the confines of my skull. It must be that way because my mood has soured and I’m feeling forgetful, mouthy, and blatantly rude.

The day began with such promise but turned rotten when amid running errands during a Georgia heat wave, the air conditioning went out on my SUV. Even with all four windows tucked away and the breeze attempting to cool things down, I can feel my skin cooking like a rotisserie chicken set aside at Walmart. I don’t do golden brown though, I only do red. The flecks on my shoulders become more prominent but the rest of me looks like the underside of a baboon.

My husband kept talking. I would ask a question and he would snap at me while my son would repeat himself… and repeat… and repeat. My mind wandered and drifted off to laying on my bed at home in my underwear like a starfish. Air conditioning on blast, an iced tea in my free hand… or maybe it was an ice cream. My mouth watered at the thought of anything cold being pressed against my lips and lingering on my tongue. I would love for the water from a frozen swimming pool to graze across my skin right about now.  

“Maybe it’s a problem with the compressor… are you even listening to me?” He interrogated.

I wasn’t. The blowers were turned on but the only thing coming out of them were flames that were aimed directly into my face. He kept them turned all the way up because he had spent hours sitting in the Auto Zone parking lot messing around with parts underneath the hood. He wanted to see if he had fixed it yet, he hadn’t. He was doing it for me, but I just wanted it to be over. The vents stayed on blast while I was in the fast lane of being driven to insanity.

I wanted to feel ashamed for not considering the homeless people who have tents tucked underneath bridges in Atlanta. Yet I was selfishly focused on my heat intolerant body and my ability to avoid passing out so I could make it home… so I could identify as a pink naked starfish. The trip to the laundromat proved to be equally fruitless. I tucked my computer underneath my arm hoping to connect to the Wi-Fi, download some movies, write, and perhaps cool off a little. The problem was that their air conditioning had gone out too.

They used an extension cord to provide power to a massive fan as a way of circulating air flow and making things more comfortable. Unfortunately, a woman who didn’t have enough quarters for a dryer had emptied her wet belongings into the bottom of a cart while hanging her fitted bedding from the corners of the rack on top. The speed of the fan turned her bedding into a parachute that blocked the cool wind tunnel from caressing anyone or anything other than the clothes she wanted dried.

Normally I pay close attention to my body language but since I had lost my ability to sympathize, my foul mood and disgust was written clearly across my face. I should have considered that perhaps the woman was a truck driver, or someone who (in this current economy) was forced to live out of her car. It’s also possible that like me, she felt so delusional from the grotesque Georgia heat that she had forgotten all about the fact that they would dry rather quickly if she had only chosen to hang them up outside. I however didn’t think about any of those things before tossing dirty looks in her direction. She was the thief of my joy after all.

She tucked her yellow locks behind her ear, and I thought that it looked a lot like crunchy instant ramen noodles, so I made another face. I didn’t feel particularly proud of myself for thinking that way, but I was angry. Nor did I feel good about judging her life choices, yet I wouldn’t dare choose to wear white spandex in public on a day like this. As I sat there making mental notes, I assumed that perhaps this heat had her looking at me in the same light… or not. I didn’t care.

The woman stammered an apology. She tucked her sunny blue shirt into her leggings and fiddled with her hands as she tripped over excuses for stealing my happiness. It was too late; my back was turned, and I wasn’t listening. We loaded our small laundry pile into our plastic basket and onto the sticky leather seats of my car so we could head home. Relief at last!

As I lay like a naked starfish across the length of my bed, I didn’t radiate with joy like I thought I would. I felt cooler, I felt more levelheaded, but the only one I had to blame was myself. Rather than thinking rationally about my mood or my actions I allowed how I felt to determine how I treated people like my husband, my son, and even strangers within my orbit.

I could have scrounged my car for spare quarters to share. I could have thanked my husband for standing in the heat to rescue me even though he was frustrated too. I could have set a better example for my son. It’s hard to humble myself and ask for forgiveness. To point out that I didn’t do my best and that sometimes how I treat others is a dead give-away to what’s going on inside my head. My car runs. I have a house to go home to and yet, I was the thief today.

My blueberry lavender mental health milkshake 😋
My mental health reading list for this summer & for our big family trip to Glacier National park 🥰❤️
Critters, Chaos & the Occasional Corpse

The Muse

LaShelle

Early in the morning before tackling farm chores or getting dressed for the day, I woke up slowly by reading various blogs that popped up underneath the “Discover” tab on WordPress. I found that this little button opened my eyes to an amazing new world of writers. Beyond that it has been helping me grow and improve so that I am able to communicate better with all of you.

Some Blog posts this week have left me in awe and pushed me to think about situations in my life in an entirely new way (Like the one written by Wynne Leon about Mount Everest). Other posts have inspired to me to tackle unique writing prompts (like this one written by Ben who enjoys farm life as well).

I thought a lot about how writing prompts might fit into a farm blog where I primarily discuss various events in my life and my ability to reflect on them. I came up empty. Especially when those writing prompts take me on a tangent that is nowhere near being farm related. Yet the more I read, the more I wanted to write something completely off topic to share here with all of you. I looked over the writing prompt made by Ben on Trail Baboon and decided to shove my concerns out of my head and to sit and enjoy the journey.

I ended up loving it so much that I shared the un-edited version of the writing prompt (typos in all) with Trail Baboon and Ben. I then decided to toss my “brand” out the window to share it here with all of you as well. To summarize this exercise, Ben shared a local town mystery that involved bottles of vodka, and a man who followed the wrong woman wearing a red jacket. The story itself was true but the prompt encouraged others to solve the mystery with a piece of fiction.

Without giving too much away, (it would be far better to click the link so you can read it for yourself) I’d love to hear your version. So if you decide to write about it, please share it with Trail Baboon and also share it here with me.

Small towns are notoriously more interesting than fiction (mine included) and I have been planning on sharing a piece with more information about that topic at a later date. Until then… here is the story I concocted that was inspired by Ben’s writing prompt about his little town’s mystery. I believe that my title fits both this explanation and the piece I wrote below perfectly.

“The Muse”

My fingertips dripped with the essence of her. They had come too close to catching me. I had gone to see a showing of “Come From Away” with my wife at a tiny theater in town. Petite exactly like she was, not my wife… her.

After much deliberation my “better half” decided to wear the wine stained pea coat that I so strongly recommend. I only bought it because it reminded me of her, but had given it to my wife as a birthday gift. The magnificent color that had once beautifully highlighted wavy copper hair and tulip shaped lips. It didn’t look nearly as lovely on my wife.

I had discreetly slipped the travel sized watercolor brushes and paint into my overcoat. The large breast pockets perfectly hid the cheap bottle of vodka and even left enough room for my smallest notebook. It was the perfect way to keep her close to my heart.

How many hours had I spent in the glow of early morning sunlight, bent over the edges of that rough paper? Avoiding police officers while waiting to catch a glimpse of her on the running path. I couldn’t remember. Too many. It was hard to keep her in sight while lurking underneath the dark twisted branches of the forest. My hands desperately trying to engrave the image of her into my notebook.

My mind was drifting when I realized that the frigid air had made my glasses fog up. I had been making my way towards the car while following the wrong red pea coat out of the theater. I was being careless again. My wife was several feet behind me. I had to explain myself. Using my hot breath to ease the numbness in my hands, I grazed the stubble on my chin and mumbled an excuse for my actions.

Long after the movie had been over with- yet before the sun graced the sky with an ocean of color… I would slip out of bed and make my way to the path. The vail of darkness obscuring my true intentions. I dressed in jogging shorts and a runner’s shirt underneath my signature jacket. I needed to look the part of being innocent. The bottle of water firmly in my clutch helped me blend in even better and would also serve as another useful tool.

I was slinking my way into my favorite spot when I spied ember flames licking their way down pavement. Her lips pursed in concentration for the next breath and she wore freckles that kissed the creamy skin on her shoulders. Sapphire spheres scanned the wood line but were swollen and ruby red underneath. I watched her suck in the scent of evergreen and pine while her limbs propelled her to push onward.

She had clearly been crying again and it killed me not to know why. “I love my wife.” I whispered. We didn’t fit together (my wife and I) but I never wanted to hurt her and I loved her deeply. My love for my wife however, wasn’t enough to keep me from coming back here to see… her. I dipped my brushes in paint and got to work. I used the cheap vodka in my pocket to add elements to the scene that the water in my bottle couldn’t accomplish.

When I was finished, she was gone and my fingers were stained with Daniel Smith’s Perylene Red watercolor paint. It was the essence of her. My copper muse. On my way home I ran into an officer who was keeping an eye over other joggers.

“Have a good run? What have you got on your hands there Mike?” He questioned suspiciously.

I had almost been caught the last time I was here by my wife over the exact same evidence. Red handed… literally. It threw me into a panic so I tucked my fists into the pockets of my shorts and decided to attempt to change the subject.

“Hey Sam! How’s your wife doing? You know it’s been a while since we had you both over for dinner…” the small talk distraction worked beautifully in my favor.

When I was finally on my way again, I stopped by the old town hall building to discard the vodka. In my haste to paint as quickly as possible, I seemed to carelessly pour large quantities over my brush. Sometimes this left me with half a bottle, occasionally more, and many times it left me with far less.

My head rotated to be sure no one was around to witness me sliding the bottle out of my pocket. Listening to the satisfying “THUNK!” as it hit the ground gave me such an overwhelming sense of pleasure. My little secret. The thrill of it had me smirking. The evidence of my visits just lying there to glisten in the light of day as I waltzed home with the real prize.

A watercolor painting created by me.