Mothers Are Like That...

[From a draft previously titled "John Boy and Me."]
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I'm sitting here watching TV with the whole family. It's been a great day. My wife is sitting beside me in our reclining love seat, and I have just enough time to post something for Mother's Day.

There are two one-hour television shows from years ago that struck a lasting chord with me. Both used a narrative format from the first to the last episode. Both titles start with four letters T-H-E-W: The two shows are The Waltons and The Wonder Years.

The Wonder Years, of course, grabbed me because it was in perfect chronological synchronicity with my life. I was the exact same grade and age as Kevin Arnold (played by the young Fred Savage). Watching the turning calendar pages of each season was like reliving my days at Burton Junior High School. Even his chronic crush on Winnie matched mine with [name goes here], except I did not kiss my girlfriend as Kevin did in that heart-warming episode. Thought about it. Wanted to. Practiced the moment in my mind… but never overstepped the conviction I held at the time that it’s not good to kiss girls just to be kissing girls, a “code” that saw me from adolescence to young adulthood with few regrets.

This Mother’s Day post, however, is about The Waltons. This show was not only a narrative but it included the narrator-as-writer in the storyline. The character of “John Boy,” played by actor Richard Thomas, is a semi-autobiographical portral of Earl Hamner, Jr. [Hamner circa 1980 at right.]

The series pilot "The Homecoming" aired the Christmas of my first year in high school. From that special on, my family ran into the living room at the sound of that theme to watch The Waltons every week for the first five seasons. (John Boy left after that and it wasn't quite the same.) My mom especially loved the show and often said that I was like John Boy. I had begun “writing” at the time (though I had no clue what I was doing).

Mom didn’t miss any of the “mystic” signs along the way. My name is Thomas Richard, and John Boy was played by Richard Thomas. Hamner’s novel upon which The Waltons is based is called Spencer’s Mountain. My family name on the maternal side of my family tree is Spencer. In Spencer's Mountain, the father is building their own home, as were we with our father during these same years. Mom used these details to inspire me to remember things and to write "our stories." As the Bayer commercial from the same era used to say, “Mothers are like that, Yeah, They are.”

I’m no Earl Hamner, Richard Thomas, of "John Boy Walton." Just the same, hearing my mom's encouragement through the years made the fact that I liked to write a very acceptable pastime and influenced my choice to become an English teacher.

It is most remarkable to me that Hamner himself was the actual narrative voice at the end of each show. That may seem only natural, but not all writers are effective at reading their own words. (e.g. recorded readings of Frost and Sandburg). Hamner’s voice, however, is an inseparable part of that long-running show.

To me, narrative writing requires the human voice, but it is not commonly held that “good writing” must read well aloud. I’ve read somewhere that “writers” who read their work aloud tend to include too many prepositional phrases. It's because prepositional phrases (beginning by definition with a preposition and ending always with an “object”) create a natural rhythm like the three heard in “Over the river... and through the woods... to Grandmother’s house we go.”

Keeping that caution in mind, I write with the assumption that narratives are an oral tradition. As I write and especially as I re-write, I read aloud. I narrate the words. It is only then that I know my “voice” is in them. I don’t know whether this approach to writing is a cause or an effect of my fondness for Earl Hamner. I only know that when I hear Hamner read the lines of his life, I'm drawn to his tone and style and rhythms. I feel the same winds, see the same colors, and ache with the same sense that family is the strongest tie that binds.

Words strike wonderful chords of music all their own—words like meadow and autumn and sorrow and kept contain their own blend of notes that becomes inseparable from their meaning. The music of words is what blurs the line between poetry and well-crafted narrative voice. Listen to Hamner read these lines from the last episode, and you’ll see what I mean.

"I have walked the land in the footsteps of all my fathers. Back in time to where the first one trod. And stopped, saw sky, felt wind, bent to touch Mother Earth and called this home. This mountain, this pine and hemlock, oak and poplar, laurel wild and rhododendron. Home and mountain. Father, mother, grow to the sons and daughters to walk the old paths. To look back in pride in honoured heritage. To hear its laughter and its song. To
grow to stand and be themselves one day remembered. I have walked the land in the footsteps of all my fathers. I saw yesterday and now look to tomorrow." Earl Hamner, Jr.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom! Thanks for all the great stories and for bringing out whatever "John Boy" was in me. =) Because of you, I sometimes here that quiet exhaled chord of a harmonica at the end of things I've written. G'night...
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Why Bloggers Blog: Part VI

To Bring Balance to Their Private World

Part VI is the last of “Why Bloggers Blog.” I'd hoped to post it sooner, but Saturday was full of yard work and painting a bedroom, and Sunday had church and a piano recital, followed by some time at the boardwalk and a trip to the train station to pick up a daughter returning from Chicago. The weather was a little breezy but beautiful. I must admit that as I began the workweek, I was a disappointed that I didn't have time to write over the weekend. There was a time, that would not have been true....

I mentioned in Part Five-B that the observations in this final post would be mostly directed at me. Keep in mind that these thoughts are not one-size-fits-all as much as a friendly “if the shoe fits.”

I don't feel like I spend too much time writing. In reality, and that's the key word, I'm a typical guy who enjoys a diversion from work, but I'm also a dad and husband in need of the loved ones who call me by those terms of endearment.

When your kids start warning you in jest about a new type of "lap cancer" caused from having a lap top on your knees all winter while you watch TV with the family... you know something may be out of balance. (Those are my girls there on the left. I do hope we don't discover that laptops cause cancer of the lap.)

When your wife needs some help with something and hears "Just a minute, Honey, I'm right in the middle of a thought" ... it better be a good one because that thought may be your only company for a while. =) I’m just kidding. My wife is very patient. That's her there at the right (in a picture our youngest snapped a couple years ago). She has some of the best judgment and intuition on the planet. When she points out a “concern,” it’s worth noting because she's often RIGHT. Take note. Husbands seldom put such things in writing, but it's a pretty safe bet that we all could.

Don't think I’m just saying that for brownie points, because it’s unlikely that she'll read this post. Her mind is understandably on a certain June wedding. Mine is, too. In fact, knowing my disposition, my increased writing this winter has been a way to "not think" about the life changing year we are sharing as a family.

[Add to all this the fact that in April I accepted an adjunct professorship in a GR University's evening Masters in Education program. It involves one night of teaching a week and some "on-line" instruction. As we've demonstrated here, using the internet for "class discussion" is incredibly useful, but it will accentuate the "perception" that I have a laptop fused to my thighs.]

When I hinted at the subject of this final post in the series, I had no idea that so many people would speak in terms of “addiction." Hearing some of your accounts, I'm glad to be aware of that possible pitfall of this pastime and that once it's recognized, adjustments can be made.

I don't think my mid-life increase in writing is a bad thing, but I do need to find a balance. The title poem of this blog speaks of endless patterns of ink because most of my writing through the years was literally scrawled and re-scrawled on bits of paper filed here and there (like Emily Dickinson). Most of them never quite felt "finished," but this pastime has been the cure for procrastination. I have a much better "write 'til it's finished" record since taking up blogging. This kind of writing adds the risk (the possibility) of actually being "read." I say risk, because let's face it... what if no one reads? What if what you've written doesn't resonate?...

Crop Circles

What if writing
of the kind I do
is but a form of madness,
senility not yet curbed
by an arthritic hand?
What if being lost in thought
is merely wandering in a maze
of corn or waist-high rye
until all my
sterile stomping there
in search of sky
or light or just
a path to where I am...
shows only where I've trod
in patterns
that do not mean
a thing to man…
and little more when seen
by birds... and God?
© Copyright 2006, TK, Patterns of Ink


I enjoy the "neighborhood" aspect of blogging, but writing itself is an outlet for me. We all need outlets. The cool thing about blogging is that it's not an "outlet mall" as much as it is a village of curious little shops where people step in to consider adding some small thing to their life or to hear a story that makes some "antique" worth keeping. Blogging has helped me organize the shop, so to speak, taking things from piles to posts (dusting them off or revising them as needed with 20 or 30 additional years of life experience.) Oh, there’s new stuff, too (like "Wooden Box" parts I and II, and that whole mid-Sixties “When Doubt Came Slowly” string last Christmas), but the newly written pieces somehow fit in with the old. This little shop adds a fulfilling dimension to my life and is profitable in countless ways (though not in the lucrative sense of the word). I suspect that's true for most "writers," bloggers, and owners of antique shops.

Comments are

the little bell that rings

as we step through the door

of the shops we browse.
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Some time back, my wife tactfully encouraged me to track the patterns of time spent in this pastime. (She enjoys my writing but is understandably concerned about balance and priorities.) So I checked out my archives. They're sparse compared to many. My first post was in October 2004. After that, I was blogging casually a year and a half before receiving my first dozen comments (one or two at a time through the months-- some from “spammers” =). At that pace, it took over two years to reach my 100th post (not that I paid attention to such things until this task), and yet... I saw that I’ve written more than 100 posts in the past 7 months (not counting lots of drafts). Hmmm... my family has a point. Perhaps I need to rethink the "store hours" of this little shop if I want to keep it open over the long haul.

Why the gradual increase in my writing? Well, the first thing was I got a laptop for school work so I didn't have to share the one computer in the house with two college students. Naturally, with the laptop came a wireless router which meant I could work and write from anywhere in the house. I began writing while sitting with the family. They were often studying or reading so I didn't feel bad about that. Then of course, I starting meeting you folks, which made writing more fun than ever. In fact, it is that aspect of blogging that I would miss most. I now have a better understanding of posts like this.

So I'll be adjusting my writing time slightly to keep a balance between a worthy pastime and inadvertently letting time pass me by during some important months here in my home. I've never enjoyed writing more, and I don't see that changing. I have plenty in the hopper to keep Patterns going for a long time. I look forward to finishing them, and to whatever conversation they may bring.

Wow! I just scrolled down this thread of posts. Thanks for being part of this three-week discussion on Why Bloggers Blog. It went places we hadn't planned to go, and kept us a little longer than we planned to stay, but you helped make it an interesting and civil exchange of words that matter.

See you soon on the front porch...

Why Bloggers Blog…. Part I

This is part one of a six-part series of posts exploring some of the reasons we bloggers blog. I'll try not to make it as obvious as serving chicken at a poultry convention, and I am especially eager to gather input from fellow bloggers on each section... so humor me.

Many of you have been blogging since the beginning of the revolution in 2002. As that article link suggests, at first most of the attention was given to the grass-roots journalism that was giving the mainstream media fits. Patterns of Ink (POI) began in an election year (2004), and many of my posts were editorial essays, but eventually blogging revived something from my past… from before blogging… before the internet… before computers. How can that be? I suspect this is true of many of the bloggers who read here.

We have more than a few things in common. We're all pretty observant, good thinkers, and friendly. I don't think that is a coincidence. Blogging is way to observe, reflect, wonder, write, share stories, form opinions, stretch views, and interact with others.

Part One's topic, however, is a common skill we've all developed through the years. When I say what it is, some of you will gasp, “That’s not me. I don’t fit that bill.” This post is about the fact that
we are all writers.

You may hasten to qualify the term, "I'm a writer in the making." Here's the good news: All writers are in the making.

I have enjoyed but struggled with writing my entire life. I once wrote a note to my teacher and closed with, “Have a grate day!” Cute, huh? Well, maybe if I hadn't been in 8th grade. Back then, I’d write a story like “The Mystery of the Cigar Store Indian” and Miss Statelier would give me an “A” for effort, characters, imagination, etc. but she'd circle dozens of misspelled words and write “Look it up” with a smiley face in the margin. I tried that. The words weren't there!

To this day, I'm a spotty speller. I talk to spellcheck like an old friend as I type. He's drawing his red line under my words this very minute. Ironically, he's telling me I've misspelled spellcheck. Evidently, Spell is his first name and Check is his middle name. Oh, well. I'm leaving it. Get over it, Pal!

The fact that midway through college, I changed my major and became a teacher would have shocked every English teacher who prodded me along the K-12 "paper trail." The fact that writing hadn't come naturally to me, helped me as a teacher for twenty years.

Writing is not easy for most people. I still struggle with it, and yet I enjoy it more and more the older I get—and the more I write. Blogging has brought the fun back to my personal writing.

If you're still not sure whether you're a blogger who writes or a writer who blogs (or an avid reader who can write well), consider the following:

If you've ever backspaced as you type to rephrase something a little better, you’re a writer.
If you’ve ever wondered if the stories of your life might actually be of interest to this world, you’re a writer.
If you’ve ever woken up to scribble down an idea for fear you’d lose it in a dream, you’re a writer.
If you look forward to the chance to sit down and flesh out your scribbled thoughts, you’re a writer.
If you’ve ever felt that what you've written was silly or hollow or overworked and that no one would ever read it, you’re a writer.
If you know that there are thousands of much better writers than you in this world, but you write anyway, you’re a writer.
If you’ve ever been motivated by the question “If I don’t write this, who will?”… you’re a writer.
If you sometimes find solace in the company of words (your own and other's) and know they have character and voice and meaning all their own, you're a writer.
If you choose words wisely knowing that you must live them and that some may live on when you are gone, you are a writer.
If you understand that clicking the "create" tab on your blog dashboard is a hint that the creativity of writing (and all the arts) is part of being "created in the image of God," you're a writer.
If you can put writing aside when none of the above feels true and know that you'll return, you’re a writer.

Oh, here's one more. You might just be a writer if you can't wait to write a post about the house full of your daughter's college friends who came for Sunday dinner and as you were getting ready to serve ice cream and brownies, a cell phone began ringing—in your freezer! Bewildered, you pulled out the ringing, vibrating popsicle only to have it nabbed from a tall blonde who says, "Oh, thanks. That's mine. I dropped it in the sink a couple weeks ago and now the screen only works when its frozen. I have three minutes to read this text message before it thaws and then I'll put it back in your freezer if that's okay?"
I can't wait to write about that. I guess I just did.

I’ve read your blogs (or will if we haven't met yet) and you are all fine writers with something to say. Most of us deliberately avoid writing about earth-shaking things. After all, there are books and books about things that have shaken the earth.

I tend to write about simple things noteworthy only in that they often go unnoticed. If I don’t write about them or if you don’t read them, it will probably make no more difference than where you pile the leaves to bag and cart away. Sometimes, though, it's good to remember the commonness of things we have in common. Everyone has something to say. Everyone has a voice.

Like the squeak of a rocker on the porch, even things that don’t much matter still belong.

Bloggers blog to write!
And that is just one of the reasons we bloggers blog.
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