Memories of My Dad

My Dad, Joe Parrish

I woke up this morning feeling homesick for my dad. It was only 4:30 in the morning though, and way too early to call him.

At his age, he doesn't hop out of bed quite as easily as he did when I was a child and growing up with all my siblings on Elm Street in Coshocton, Ohio.

When I was a little girl, my dad was ten feet tall. He had all of the answers for all of your questions and he could fix anything that broke.

If you got a boo boo, he would have you soak it in Epsom Salts and it got better -- if it was a cut, he painted it with "daddy's red paint" (Mercurochrome) and the cut got better, too.

In this child's eyes, my dad was the smartest man in the world and he could do anything.

He was a quiet man. It took a lot to make him raise his voice, and believe me when I say, with six children in the house, an assortment of foster kids in and out over the years, plus our friends, you would think he would blow once in awhile, but he kept his cool, no matter what.

I remember when Daddy taught each of us how to drive. We had one cardinal rule which was never to be broken. We had to wear our seat belt. We knew it was because he loved us and wanted us to be safe. We kids all secretly knew that dad would probably petition the church to add a number Eleven to the Ten Commandments: "Thou Shalt Not Forget Thy Seat Belt".

Not to wear a seat belt in our family meant losing our driving privileges for two weeks. If we broke that rule, (we all learned this the hard way) he never said a word. When the guilty party drove home, parked, and got out of the car, Daddy met us at the front door, silently holding his hand out. We didn't have to ask, "Why?" We knew, he knew.

He didn't have to say a word. The rule had come from his heart. We knew, in that one moment, we had broken it and dropped the car keys into his outstretched hand.

I also remember a lesson he taught me when I was about ten, and I never forgot it. In our home, dad did the grocery shopping. Mama made her list and gave it to dad, and then he took one of us along to help him with the grocery bags. This particular day, it was my turn.

When we got to the cash register, the cashier announced that the bill was $122.56. In 1959, that was a lot of money. To a ten year-old, that was at least the price of a new car. Well, I watched the expression on his face turn to firm resolve as he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He took some bills out and handed the money to her.

We put the groceries in the back of our station wagon and I climbed into the front seat for the drive home. On the way, I thought about how expensive it must be, having a big family like ours. I was thinking of ways I could help save money, since he had spent so much at the store.

I remembered all the times I had heard mama or daddy tell us to turn off the TV, or lights, if we weren't using them, and I promised myself I would do a better job. I must have been uncharacteristically quiet, because right about then, daddy asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, but then I asked, "Daddy, are we poor?"

He reached across the seat and patted me on my arm and said, "No, honey. We're not poor. We're not poor at all. We have everything we need. We just don't have a lot of money."

I've thought about that day so many times in the years since. Dad taught us so many important lessons about life and love.

He would tell us not to try and live life too seriously. When we do that, we miss the real beauty, which is in the small things. Puddles are there for splashing; mud is for making mud pies; mirrors are for making funny faces; and a hug ... well, a hug will fix just about anything that a bandaid won't cover up.

Love is measured in so many precious minutes. It's important we not miss any of them, because who knows, life might be metered in hours.

His message was so clear: everything that mattered, everything that was important, we already had. Love is what's important.

To My Dad, who passed away not long after this blog post was written:

Any man can be a father.
The good ones become dad.
There are papas, pops and pa's
and even my old man,
but only the very special ones
remain forever "daddy".

I love you, Daddy.
You're still ten feet tall ...


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Memories and Grandchildren ...

Owen

Between the two of us, Robert and I have four children.  All live in four different states, which is why at first we choose to live in central Pennsylvania.

Last weekend, we drove to Connecticut to see two of my daughters and six grandchildren.

Last month, we headed down to North Carolina to visit my youngest daughter and her three children.  They're always whirlwind visits, but I can't complain.  The time we get to spend together is so important and it's always worth the trip.

Tyler and Jack

 As I was having coffee early this morning, I thought about those visits.  I always bring so much more home with me than what I took along when we're with children and grandchildren.  I'm not talking about material things.

What I treasure are the things we share, the memories we make.  It doesn't matter whether I'm sitting on the floor with Jack building a Lego house, reading to Tyler and Halloran, giving out hugs and kisses for heart pockets, or telling Lauren all about the great-grandmother she's the spitting image of.  What we're really doing is creating memories.

Liam, Kev, Colin and Lauren

 I remember the innocence and wonder of childhood.  Who we were as children isn't who we are now, we grow and change, and yet, we are exactly the same.

Time is the only thing that is different.  One day then was as long as twenty days are now.  The things that mattered to then, I still remember, because they matter even more now.

All of my grandparents are gone now, and so are my parents, but the memories we made are always with me.

Andrew

What I remember most about my grandparents was the time they spent with me.  It didn't matter what we were doing.  The talking and sharing while we were doing whatever we did -- that is what was important.  They spent time with me and it felt good.

Will and Matty

 I love watching my grandchildren playing, pretending, or just enjoying being kids.  It brings back so many memories.

Being a child is believing in love and magic, believing that fairies do exist, and it is believing in believing.  

It is pretending to be so little that elves can whisper in our ear, and it's about turning pumpkins into coaches, mice into horses, and nothing into everything, because every child has a fairy godmother in its soul ... and a grandmother for a best friend.

Halloran

Well, Robert and I moved again.  Now we're in Florida, but I can tell you I'm already looking for my next adventure when my grandchildren come for a visit.

I need that -- but what's more important is, they need that even more.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Rusty and CJ Write Some Poetry Together

Rusty and Kathleen

I have a poet friend I've known for almost forever.  His name is Rusty Daily and he and his wife, Kathleen, live in Indianapolis.  That's a long way from Florida, and the only reason I've never had the pleasure of meeting them.

Between us, Robert and I have four children in four different states, and that pretty much takes up whatever free time we have, just to visit our kids and grandkids.

But I digress ... I first met Rusty years ago at an online writing community called AuthorsDen.com.  We were both posting poetry for children and often commented on each other's work.

Our tastes were very similar, running everywhere from the silly, insightful, or outright goofy, and somewhere along the way, we started doing some co-writing.

One of us would write a couple of lines as a starter, then email it to the other one.  Back and forth the poem went between us, until it felt right.

I want to share a few of those poems.  Oh, and I've emailed Rusty, to try and nudge him into writing a few more poems with me.  Like me, underneath that senior exterior, he's also just a big silly kid ...


Wedgies

by Rusty and CJ

You know what makes me laugh
and puts me into stitches?
It's when I grab ahold and pull
the waist of someone's britches.

It’s fun. It's called a wedgie
and what a super name,
just pull and yell out WEDGIE!
It‘s really the coolest game.

Hmmm, now who should I get,
lil sissy or my big brother?
Or maybe I should get my dad
but definitely NOT my mother!

And you NEVER do grandmas and grandpas.
To do that you‘d have to be nuts
('cause everyone knows that old people
don't even have any butts).



All By Myself

by Rusty and CJ

I gotta play by myself today
cause Mommy is cleaning and mopping.
Then she’ll be calling a sitter
for when she goes grocery shopping.

The sitter, she’s really boring.
She’s always on the dumb phone,
or painting her nails or combing her hair
so I guess I’ll be playing alone …

I think I will get out my play dough
and make a spaghetti pie.
Or maybe, I'll feed all my dollies
so they won't be fussy and cry.

At two, I’ll watch my TV shows.
Till then, I'll build with my blocks.
When I'm done, I'll pick them all up
(if I can get 'em all back in the box).

Maybe later, my secret friend and me
will draw a picture or two
with all my favorite crayons,
specially the reds, greens and blues.

I really like my toys and games
and my other good stuff … but gee,
I think ALL playing’s is funner
when Mommy is here beside me.



Monster

by Rusty and CJ

After all my books are read,
Mommy says it's time for bed.

Teeth are brushed, all pearly white,
and now I have to go night-night.

Daddy walks me up the stairs,
and helps me say my bedtime prayers.

He fluffs the pillow for my head,
then lifts me up into my bed.

Mommy tucks me in real tight
cause monster visits me at night.

Tippy-toe, the monster hovers,
and tries to slip beneath my covers.

Round my bed the monster dances
waiting for his little chances

to see a gap, then in he'll go
to grab my finger or a toe.

I feel him crawling up my bed!
He's started licking at my head.

If I don't run, I know that he'll
have me for his monster meal.

And in the dark, what's that I see?
Two glowing eyes stare back at me!

Should I yell with all my might
for Dad to come turn on the light?

He might get mad if I did that...
Come here, Monster, you silly cat!

More of our co-written poetry can be found on my website, Barking Spiders Poetry on the CJ and Rusty Poetry Page.  If you enjoyed these, you'll also enjoy the others!

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

When I Get to Heaven, I'm Gonna Ask ...

"Life is unfair, and it’s not fair that life is unfair." ~Edward Abbey, 1927~1989

Why is it ...

Someday, when I get to heaven, I'm going to ask God a few questions. I've been saving them all up. There are things that really bug me and I've never found answers to them on this human plane called earth.

Why is it that innocent children are allowed to be born to parents who don't give a darn? For the most part, the children raise themselves. They're slapped around and abused, and worse yet, they're shown no love or affection at all by the so-called parents.

Then on the flip side, there are hundreds of thousands of couples who would give most anything they have, just to be able to conceive a child. They wait with unconditional love to pour into a child, if only they were given the opportunity to have one.

Here's another question I'm going to ask. Why is it that prisons are full psychotic people who live long and wasted lives and there are so many men, women and children who die young, their goodness and talents never to be realized, nor shared with the world.

I'm also going to ask: why is it that as women, we spend our lives shaving and waxing various parts of our anatomy to fit in with society's norms and then, when we finally manage to make it to our golden years, the only places hair will even grow is on our heads, our upper lips and our chins? Why is that?

For men it's just as bad. The hair on their heads thins out, or is non-existent, and when they reach their golden years, the only places hair WILL grow -- and profusely, I might add, is on their ears and in their nostrils. Why is that?

Why is it that there are people who don't value life and who hate others, based on religion, sexual orientation, or the color of their skin? They spend their lives planning ways to unleash their hate on innocent people, like with the Twin Towers in New York City. Why is it?

Spiritual counselor, Gary Zukav, says that everything is as it should be. He says things happen for a reason, and that reason is, for our spiritual growth and awareness.

Maybe so, but I'm still going to ask the questions anyway ... 

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

A Warning About Stalkers

Authors and Speakers: 
Do Not List Your Appearance Schedules Online

This article is being written to all who do, or are planning to do, any type of public speaking engagements. It is based on a negative experience I had several years ago when I lived in New Hampshire. I learned from it, and I want you to learn from it.

My reason for writing it is to help other authors and public speakers so they won't have a similar experience.

I belong to many online social, book, and writing communities. In some of them, there is a special place allotted to authors for posting upcoming appearance schedules -- and they're encourage to do so. This includes dates, venues, and times, and all are visible to the public.

While I understand the purpose, and realize their intentions are honorable, my future schedule is something I'm hesitant to post now and I would like to caution other authors not to do it. Here is why...

Do Not Post Speaking Engagements Online

I've had my website, Barking Spiders Poetry, since 1998, even before my first book of the same title came out in 2000.

Once the book was published and released to the public, I created a separate page on my website dedicated solely to my upcoming book signings, poetry workshops, speaking engagements, interviews, and author school visits.

A problem arose quite suddenly and lasted for a couple of months.

Everywhere I went, to any of my speaking engagements, or personal appearances, I noticed a man lurking along the sidelines. It didn't matter whether it was at a bookstore signing, a school visit, or eventually, even in a different town and state.

Wherever I went, whatever the event, the same man was somewhere in the room within eyesight, standing and silently watching.

At first, I thought he was merely a devoted fan, or maybe a reporter, but when he followed me to another state, I realized something very different.  I had a stalker.

Do Not Post School Visit Dates and Places Online

Be extra careful, authors and public speakers. The venue, time and date of your appearances should already be advertised by the school, bookstore, (or any other place you will be appearing), in their town's paper and in the local media (TV and radio).

I can't caution you enough to be wary of also posting the same information online.

Stalkers stalk you first online. You can never be too careful ...

Best wishes for safe speaking ...

CJ

Barking Spiders Poetry Website - CJ Heck Books

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Who the Heck is CJ Heck?

Who the heck is CJ Heck?

With a bored sigh, you probably think, "Oh, she writes children's poetry ... just like hundreds of other children's poets."

My Inner Child

I've been told that my poetry IS different.  I don't write what I think children should read, or what I think they want to read.

I write poetry from a child's point of view, (probably because my own inner child is doing the writing), and it addresses many different issues that children have.

My inner child remembers what children think and wonder about in the world around them. What were we frightened of? What did we think was funny, sad, puzzling, or scary, and what made us most angry?

I love writing all kinds of poetry, but my favorite is, and always will be, poetry for children.

There is nothing as powerful as the truth and gentle honesty of a child. They have such an innocent view of their world and surroundings, sometimes with thought-provoking insight. That is what I love writing about, and from their point of view.

Please visit Barking Spiders Poetry. 

Pull up a chair, get comfy, put a child on your lap, and have a look.

I think you'll be surprised.  I'm really not like the other children's poets 'out there' ... and, who knows, just maybe you'll get reacquainted with your own inner child again.

 
~Hugs to all, 

CJ

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Heartbeats

Heartbeats 

What if we're born with 

a predetermined number

of heartbeats 

and, when they're gone, 

we're gone? 

Just in case it's true,

I'm not going to waste mine 

running down some road 

in silly spandex pants

and a jog bra.

I'm going to make my 

thumping little tickets last

as many years as I can, 

especially since

at my age, 

I've already used up 

a hell of a lot them

just getting here. 

I'll spread the rest out. 

I'll save them 

for what's important, 

like running away from 

something (or someone) bad. 

I also intend to use a lot of them 

for making love. 

If life really is a journey 

and not a destination, 

I might as well enjoy myself 

along the way ... 

CJ Heck

One Summer Day ...

Fresh Lemonade

With my coffee this morning, I was thinking about one day when I still lived in Pennsylvania.  It was summer and I was driving home from Walmart. 

A few blocks from home, I noticed a small homemade lemonade stand in the grass along the sidewalk with two kids sitting in folding chairs.

I don't know if you're old enough to remember, but it was built the same way everyone used to make bookcases, back in the 60's to hold a stereo system.  

You took two cinder blocks and piled one on top of the other at each end, and then you put a wide board across the top.  You could make a second layer on top of that, too, if you wanted it higher.

Anyway, the kids had hand-printed a sign and it was taped to the front of the board. It was perfect for the little stand, printed in crooked capital letters with crayon -- the 'N' and 'E's' in the word LEMONADE were printed backwards and it was adorable.  I couldn't resist. I pulled over and bought a glass.  

They took their business seriously.  The girl held the plastic cup, her brother poured the lemonade, and I played my part as a satisfied customer. I drank ALL of my lemonade, even though there wasn't nearly enough sugar in it ...

I couldn't stop thinking about the little lemonade stand and its entrepreneurs. There was a poem in there somewhere, and here is what I came up with.  Oh, and there's a little twist at the end ...

The Lemonade Stand

by CJ Heck

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Hurry, 'fore it's gone.
We made it just this morning.
See the table that it's on?

We promise that you'll like it
and there's sugar in it, too --
not like it was the other day
when mom and dad said "Ewwwww."

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Boy, grownups sure are funny --
they smile a lot at little kids
who are trying to make money.

Thank you, ma'am, and thank you, sir,
you've helped us out a bunch.
(Sissy, let's go make some more.
It's almost time for lunch).

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Twenty-five cents a glass!
(We've got to make more money
and we've got to make it fast).

Daddy said it wouldn't work,
that people wouldn't stop,
they'd hurry right on past us
and then they'd laugh a lot.

One last glass of lemonade!
This was so much fun!
Let's get this table put away
and then we've got to run.

Sissy look, it's snowing!
But that will be all right.
Now we have money for presents
and Santa Claus comes tonight ...

Just thinking about that day, makes my cheeks ache from the lemon-sour pucker.


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck