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The gift...

12/26/2015

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
A variation of this short piece will be published in the 2nd Edition of RAVE SOUP FOR THE WRITER’S SOUL Anthology, due to be published soon.

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     From the time my dad was able to walk, he worked in fields. He loved seeing the fruit of his efforts—the alfalfa swaying in the breeze, the cotton plump and beckoning. Mom also grew up on a farm, and it was there that she learned to can vegetables and quilt. Together, they were a formidable team—managing their own farm and their household of children.

Farmers are practical people; they do what they can with what they have to raise their crops and support their families. Their world of tractors and plows, of milk cows and chickens, of honking geese and badgering crows is concrete and not caught up in fashion or appearances.  

Midway through grammar school, mom determined it was time to send us to the Catholic school in town. It was there that I discovered another world—of crisply pressed dresses and saddle shoes, of fancy lunch bags packed with treats, of wealth I had only seen in dreams. My home-sewn skirts and worn shoes felt awkwardly out-of-place. I was the country girl in a city girl’s space.

Each year mom bought us a pair of new shoes. We excitedly looked forward to this moment. When I was in the eighth grade, however, my world was turned upside-down by a surprise I could not have imagined. Mom presented me with a pair of new nursing shoes.

“The shoes were on sale,” mom announced as she handed me the shoes. I recoiled in disbelief. Seeing my expression she said, “They are good shoes. They’ll last a long time.” Unmoved, I stood there speechless as tears ran down my cheeks.

Mom insisted, “They are good shoes!” But, her claims only brought more tears.

Later, when no one was looking, I got the brown shoe polish from the cabinet and began painting my new shoes. I tried to make saddle shoes, but failed, and then painted the whole shoe. In the end, they were neither white nor brown; rather they were a streaked mud color, and I was horrified.

When mom saw the shoes, she wasn’t pleased, and explained that I wouldn’t have another pair that year. My flats were quite worn, but from my vantage point, they were much better than the new nursing shoes, for school at least.

By the time graduation arrived, duck tape covered the holes in the soles of my shoes, but I didn't mind. Who would notice, I thought.

Then the unthinkable happened.

One of my classmates hosted a graduation party, which I had to attend. On one side of the room, the guys jostled and laughed, and on the other side of the room, the girls whispered and giggled. It was a rather typical party of 13 year olds, at least until Tommy’s mother announced a game--involving shoes.

Each girl had to put one of her shoes into a large bag. As the shoes were collected, Tommy’s mother explained, “Once we have all the shoes, the guys will select a shoe from the bag. Then I will blow this whistle, and they will find the shoe’s match. The lucky owner of the shoe will be his dance partner.”

I wanted to run out of the house, but how would I get home? Where would I go? The thought of anyone seeing the bottom of my taped shoe was too embarrassing for me. But, just as I was planning my escape, two guys brought over the bag and told me to put my shoe inside. I hesitated, and then was admonished to “hurry up!” I finally took off my shoe, never looking them in the eye, and put it in the bag.

The whistle blew, and my heart leapt. I scanned the room, but I saw no way to escape. The boys started walking around the room with a shoe in their hand; they were looking for a match. There was much frivolity, and everyone seemed happy—except me. 
 
Finally, Chuck came over and stood in front of me. I wanted to disappear. He was one of the popular kids, big and imposing. “Is this your shoe?” he said bluntly. I nodded sheepishly. His face was expressionless as he said, “Well, let’s dance.” I was stunned. The classmate I feared the most, didn’t care about the condition of my shoe.

Later I learned that Chuck’s dad was a farmer, though they lived in town. Could it be that he felt like an outsider too?

Chuck’s brooding façade hid his accepting heart, but that night I got to see it. And, because of what I saw I learned that fitting in has little to do with the soles of our shoes or where we live or what we wear, and everything to do with an open heart.

I suspect Chuck would have danced with me—even if I had worn my nursing shoes.


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Sunset at the farm....beautiful as always.

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The miracle of life...

12/13/2015

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
This has been a year of sorrows. Terrorist attacks, global warming, racial divides, and violence in our streets. No one has been spared. At times the weight of pain has so burdened our hearts that we have not known what to do.

There have been nights that I have awakened with tears that hid during the daylight hours: tears for the children who cry out why, tears for loved ones who have said their final goodbyes, tears for our beautiful earth that begs for life. Sometimes the silence of night frees my heart to weep, and this has been a week of midnight eruptions for me.

My husband and I celebrated Thanksgiving with family in California. Driving across the plains, deserts and mountains, we marveled at the natural beauty around us. The drive home was similarly extraordinary. Even so, we eagerly looked forward to resting in the comfort of all things “home.”

When we arrived, however, our dreams were shattered. The water filter beneath our kitchen sink had split from metal fatigue, sending a continuous deluge of water throughout the home, destroying everything it reached. The remains of floors, walls, and some ceilings are now pieces inside a large dumpster resting in our driveway. There are no words for this type of violation.

A magazine cover softens my sadness. It is a painting by Nellie Kranz Edwards entitled, Mother of Life. In this image, Mary is kneeling, adoring the unborn child she carries. She does not know where her child will be born or how he shall die. She is simply in awe of the precious miracle she holds. When I think of this image, I let go of fears of what might be; and, I focus instead on the miracle of life.

We all carry preciousness within the aching body we call our own. And you, dear reader, are precious to me. May abundant blessings fill your heart and home, and may we all experience the miracle Mary discovered so many years ago.

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"Mother of Life" by Nellie Kranz Edwards
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My kitchen

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A holiday party for readers and writers...

12/9/2015

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by Gwendolyn M Plano
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Location: Branson, MO

Daily Giveaways:
(1) $10 Amazon Gift Card and
(1) Autographed copy of Letting Go into Perfect Love     


Thank you for visiting my blog today.  I am a participant in the Rave Reviews Book Club's HOLIDAY TRAIN “BOOK TRAILER” BLOCK PARTY, which is running through the entire month of December, 2015.

For my stop along this tour, I am giving away two prizes and if you’d like a chance at winning one of them, please view my book trailer on YouTube at https://youtu.be/P43OKJmT83Q and then leave a comment! That’s all you have to do to get a chance at winning!

Winners will be announced here. Good luck to you and if you enjoy my trailer, please “LIKE” it on YouTube. And if you are so inclined, feel free to share it on social media forums before you leave.  Thank you in advance for your visit!

For more chances to win daily prizes during the month of December, do check out the other stops along this tour here! 

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Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way. ―Viktor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning


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