Friday, December 30, 2011

to my pea

it was the coldest night anybody in middle georgia could remember. our red geraniums the size of cantaloupes just that morning now bowing under the frost. i felt swollen the size of the world, my nine-month's pregnant body ricocheting emotion all over our tiny house.


it was just four days after Christmas. the tree had been up since Thanksgiving, and two days before we had stripped its almost bare limbs of our meager ornaments and tossed it out with the wrapping paper. the washer, housed in a shed attached to the house had frozen solid, so i hadn't been able to wash the sheets. and though i had hired a woman to clean our house because i could hardly bend, she didn't show that day, so i spent most of the day mopping and vacuuming, knowing my mother would be coming soon.


as i crawled into bed exhausted, i couldn't keep the tears from coming. i lay in the dark, unsure of why in the world the young man who snored softly beside me had even wanted to marry me in the first place. there were so many more beautiful women out there besides the beached ball of me. i woke him with my sobs, and i probably meant to. i missed my parents, having spent my first Christmas away from home. i missed the body i had known, however imperfect. and i was scared to pieces about what was to happen soon in my life and if i'd be able to step up for the first time in my life.


my husband is a wise man... even at 31 he was. he woke, hugging and assuring me through my sobs that nobody on the planet could capture his heart like i had done. he soothed me to sleep with his words. 


i don't know how long i slept. maybe an hour. and then i felt punched in the stomach, but from the inside.


i didn't want to wake him. surely this was not IT. i walked across our tiny hall to the bathroom, and as soon as i sat down, there it was. a gush.


it took two calls, about four minutes apart, to wake him. it's time. better get up. make yourself a sandwich. i wish i had chosen to make him something other than egg salad.


i showered, scratched the dog's ears, talking talking talking as i recall, and he (my husband) never once asked me to stop.


my coat wouldn't even fit around me, but he'd warmed up the car, and as we drove away in the dark, the dog stood on the sofa, looking out our picture window. we had never left him in the dark before, and my heart broke a little. i looked at the geraniums, so full and red just hours before, now limp and dark, sad. was this a sign?


it took 30 minutes to get to the hospital in our little ford escort which i never liked. a few months before we'd traded in the mustang my father had given me in college (not a '68, but still), for a more family-friendly ride. and now, we were about to be parents. parents?


the whole drive i talked and talked, though i can't remember about what, i am sure my words were full of dreams. and fear. and prayers.


within an hour, the nurses had laid me out on a gurney, measuring my swollen belly — which was wobbling and waving as if this baby i carried couldn't wait to get out.


my husband, ever the patient concerned spouse what seemed like minutes before, disappeared, as character ned allyen would later say in Shakespeare in Love, for 'the length of a Bible.'


indeed. good thing he took his egg salad sandwich with him.


if you are not a reader of this blog, you don't know that my husband was a reporter back then. i was not progressing fast enough for him apparently, so he wandered over to the newsroom to pick up a first run of the paper, and to tell everybody there that he, HE was having a baby. (why are you here? the crusty reporters working the overnight shift asked him... apparently even they thought he should be at the hospital with me.)


meanwhile back with my feet in the stirrups and my abdomen doing flip turns, i wondered if he had left me in mid-contraction for that attractive artist type he'd met at the mall while framing a picture for our house.


turns out, he hadn't. around daybreak he returned, (one of the nurses apparently had told him it would be awhile), newspaper in hand, and neither of us knowing how long this baby would take to arrive, he settled with me into the labor room to watch the Waltons. as i watched john boy and his siblings negotiate life with the Baldwin sisters and Ike and his store, i found myself wondering how in the world in just eight years, i had gone from playing mary ellen in the church Christmas play to having a baby, i mean, how did this happen?


finally, just before noon, in a frenzy that baby did come. a girl whose great blue eyes searched the florescent lights of her new world as the orderly led us out of the labor room and into recovery. it was as if she couldn't wait to get to know the great wide world she had just entered. i promised her a lifetime feltman brothers dresses as i remember, though at the time i wasn't thinking beyond the first year — and an education at Carolina (lord heaven not georgia), and because i was just a baby myself at the time, nothing else seemed to matter. 


(as i grew with my child, i would add that i wanted her to make a new friend every day, and to treat everyone in her class kindly, even if they weren't kind to her, and as far as i know, she has taken those instructions to heart.)


two days later we left the hospital on another frigid day, me wearing a maternity dress borrowed from my sister-in-law and a blouse from my wedding trousseau, greatly uncertain about how i would raise up this baby. but as she grew, i dressed her up in those dresses i'd promised — she was baptized in white organdy with tiny tucks at the sleeve  — and in ribboned bonnets and sailor dresses (prophetic, come to think of it). and we figured it out somehow, me making plenty of mistakes along the way.


she grew to have gigantic brown eyes (which turned when she was 2), and an absorbing spirit that is exactly the same as when she took in all the lights in her first few minutes of life. she never made it to Carolina as i had planned but she did one better, and i marvel on this, her 29th birthday, at what a remarkable young woman she has become despite this small shortcoming and my many, many mistakes.


we have spent the past few days together over Christmas, she and her husband an elegant pup. last year, when she left me for the lights that draw her back to the city, we stood in the driveway and wept, hugging just the way we always do. and i looked into the light of her now brown eyes and saw that she holds a little bit of me in there, too. this year, we parted ways in front of her in-laws, and i didn't want to embarrass her with my ritual weeping, so though the tears hung at the corners of my eyes, somehow i held them in.


another year gone by for my pea and me. and another birthday has rounded the corner for her. this morning i said prayers for her, that her life and her marriage continue to be strong, her smile bright and her ties to home unwavering. and i did also, selfishly, pray that this year might be the one when her little family moves a drive away instead of a plane ride.

just about now, on that cold day in 1983, the nurses brought my clean and bright-eyed baby to my husband and me, and we were frightened and in love and enchanted and wondering just how we might do right by her.

happy birthday, my pea. we didn't do so bad after all.




writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

angels, angels everywhere

When I was a little girl, Miss Lucy Wells visited our public school classroom to teach Bible stories once a week. She traveled from class to class toting a large felt board, her gray hair coiled around her head like a braided rug. Miss Wells taught us our Biblical ABCs: All have sin. Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved. Christ died for our sins. Do all to the glory of God.

And she loved her felt board characters. Adam and Eve, cowering as they were banished from the Garden of Eden. Zaccheus looking down from his tree. Jesus praying in the garden. And angels. Angels everywhere.

Angels keeping watch by night in the lion’s den, sitting beside the open tomb, climbing up and down Jacob’s ladder in his dream. And of course, there was Gabriel, who with his elegant golden wings, shown the brightest of all.

I thought a lot about Gabriel as Christmas approached.  And not simply the glowing felt board figure kneeling by Mary’s side. The Gabriel of the Old Testament was the protector — of Moses and the Israelites as they made their way out of Egypt to the Promised Land. He (or she, as many think), was the interpreter for Daniel, the one who showed him the meaning of his dreamy visions. In the New Testament of course, Gabriel is perhaps at once protector and good news purveyor. Don’t be afraid, he tells Mary. Trust me. Believe me, he tells Zachariah, for your prayer has been heard.

One day recently my friend Nell stood in my office door and said: ‘I’ve been thinking about that Gabriel, but I don’t know much about him.’

So what could we do but Google him? 


Did you know that Gabriel has a blog? And he’s an angel of Hebrew, Christian and Muslim tradition? That in Islam, he was the medium through whom God revealed the Qur’an to Muhammad?

Gabriel’s Wikipedia entry refers to him as the spirit of truth. And though no reference to his horn can be found in the Bible, tradition holds that he will blow his trumpet on the last day to wake the dead. (If you’ve been hearing or using your car horn lately, that’s supposed to mean that Gabriel is trying to get your attention.) Some folks even think Gabriel invented coffee. I’d be willing to bet some kind of angel did.

And this: Gabriel is the patron saint of communicators.

I am a communicator. It’s in my official job title: “Director of Communications.” Though I am no Gabriel, maybe my job is similar to Gabriel’s in God’s corporate work chart. I have long known since I was a child that God gave me this talent to communicate. Through writing, by teaching high school students (and the writers in this book) to communicate a bit of themselves in essays, and through listening. To my friends and my children
and even, sometimes, my husband.

I even communicate in the car. I have, in fact, been using my car horn a lot lately.
Stuck behind drivers who would rather tweet than move through the green light has had me honking like a Manhattan cab driver on more than a few mornings, late on my way into work.

So is Gabriel trying to get my attention?

I wonder what it would be like to be one of God’s favored angels. To have God’s ear — and His message — tucked up inside you, a message that will change a life. Many lives,
in fact, thousands. Millions. It would be hard, it would seem, to stay humble.

And yet my picture of Gabriel is that of a quiet and patient purveyor, who knows the message is so much more powerful than the one who brings it. This Gabriel is not so worried as I am about descriptive phrases or the turn of the right verb. It’s the what of the message that matters more than intonation.

One of my favorite movie scenes comes from the film City of Angels. In the scene, an angel played by Nicholas Cage searches for Meg Ryan’s character in the public library. Angels in top coats line the halls and escalators, taking in the myriad voices of the patrons, each offering up prayers and worries to invisible ears, hoping somehow, someone will hear them — and the angels do.  It is a beautiful idea, each of us with our own private angel who hears our thoughts and prods our dreams. 

I have been a lifelong dreamer, both in my days and in my nights, and I can still remember one or two of my dreams from my Lucy Wells days. Lately, my nightly dreams have been littered with tornados and falling trees, of children lost and found again. And of skies opening up in the midst of chaos to a kaleidoscope of clarity. One treasured friend says these dreams mean I am on the cusp of great change. That has yet to be seen. If only Gabriel would come sit by me and say: I bring good news. Trust me. Don’t be afraid. Your prayer has been heard. Nothing is impossible with God.
— Susan Byrum Rountree


writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Christmas sentence

(with thanks to Sally B., after nikki giovanni)


at Christmas
we drive through the flat 
Carolina plain
turned blonde in winter,
trees scraping the 
naked sky,
to home,
so we can puff our cheeks with 
butter-dipped rolls,
soft as clouds
and pickled green beans and
my mother's cake, dripping with 
creamy caramel,
sitting at the table 
set with my mother's 
scrolled silver
that we used to use 
every day 
when i was a child,
and my father 
carefully annunciates 
each word
of the blessing
for the first time 
all year,
thanking God 
for gifts of grace
known, but mostly not
and for family,
past and absent,
present and 
even pending,
then once stuffed,
we fuss about who will 
clean the
stacks of dishes
piled at the sink, 
then we laugh over coffee
at how i never stayed at camp,
then we place bets on who is 
number one in 
grandmother
"B"'s eyes,
and as the sun sets,
hugs travel across
the room as fast as gossip
as we make our way
to leave,
and once outside
our breath
fills the 
crisp night
with clouds as soft 
as those rolls,
then we drive back through
the darkened plain
and over the river
and through the woods
to our other 
home,
the tastes of 
yeast and butter 
and caramel
and 
family
lingering 
on our tongues.


writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

life's too short to be rude

it's been a busy day. carpet cleaner here at 9. wrapping presents til noon, making two batches of rolls, rolling them out, getting ready to bake them. (though there was a short time for 'reading' aka 'nap', this day has been spent on my feet or leaning over a giant box trying to get the paper corners square. 

then there was a trip to the store, to gather what i need for cookies for a swap next week, finish rolling out the rolls for a party tonight, start thinking about when the Princess and her Pea come in next week.

the greeting met me as i rolled my cart up to the checkout: "happy holidays to you!" said the jolly clerk. "are you ready for Christmas?" 

 you're awfully jolly tonight i told her as i checked off my list of what was yet to do. 

"life's too short to be rude," she said, and then her dialogue began. she was almost ready for Christmas, but didn't go to the mall — no parking spaces there — i listened, finding myself smiling as i put my bags in the cart.

how often have i walked into my neighborhood grocery store hoping i don't see anyone i know because i'm in a hurry. and i move the cart around, dropping what i need into it for supper, leave, rushing to the next thing and the next, face in full frown thinking of what i have yet to do.

too often i am rude to people around me. don't have time for their stories, think i am so busy, especially this time of year, that i forget that there are those out there in the world, like this clerk, who are not too busy for me.

tonight i left the store with a smile, i felt it growing where too lately a frown has become etched. i thought about the clerk: had she just begun her shift? (so she wasn't tired like me.) did she have shopping to do when she was off from work? would the world out there greet her as nicely as she had me? was her life at home as good as my own?

i thought about the people coming through the line behind me. would she shift their daily attitude as she had mine? will i pay her emotions forward as i meet my neighbors at the party later? at church tomorrow? i hope so.

at home, with rising rolls yet to be placed in the oven, i am thankful, that her good spirits spread over me like the hot butter melting into my rolls.




writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

our light has come

ok, so i haven't written daily during december, at least not here at writemuch. but i have been writing a lot in my job and in my head. why just a few days ago, in the wee hours of the morning, i dreamed that i had found the characters and plot to the next harry potter (well, HP wannabe)... literally dreamed up the world and had actors taking parts in the screen version, even setting it up for the sequel.

if only i could remember it. in the middle of the dream i dreamed that i was thinking now this is a great story, so great in fact that it is unforgettable. apparently not so unforgettable that when i woke just minutes later, the whole thing had vanished more quickly than dear ol' harry under his invisible cloak.

and so i have vowed that i will wake myself up from a dream of this sort again and write the whole damn thing down (even if i can't read my own handwriting, which is hard to do in the middle of the day, much less in the wee hours with the lights off.)

sometimes, though, it's not about my writing at all. sometimes the joy of words comes through the people i love writing and reading their own stories — stories i admittedly helped pull out of them — but their words, their dreams, beautifully rendered on the page.

today was that kind of day.

each sunday during Advent, i've had the privilege to mentor a group of writers who share the pews with me at my church. we've been gathering for years, off and on, during sunday school, to put ourselves into the stories of the Bible and write our way out. i think we are in our 8th year, though we've departed the text and written about Lent from time to time.

it's been a remarkable journey. and i have grown to love and respect all the people who sit at the table with me, churning out their personal stories with great enthusiasm and humility. some of them have been with me for years, others new to the table, but all are searching for the role God plays in their daily life, in their struggles to be good people and parents, to work through their grief, to accept life when plans go awry. you can't know how much i admire how they put it right there on the table, when too often their instructor is not yet ready to do the same. they have written about their marriages, children and siblings they have lost, riffs in families and the struggles and joys that come with this busy season. they've written with humor and with grace, and we have made good use of the box of Kleenex that sits in the middle of our table.

and today, this group of writers shared their stories with the larger congregation. i felt like a mother watching her child perform, take her first steps or riding away from me with her back to me as she peddles away on her bike. in the words these dear friends read, i saw growth, too, as writers and as Christians who have come to understand that God is there, even in the middle of sadness.

it's funny. we set out each season with a set of readings and no idea what we will write about or if our stories will connect in any way to each other, as any good collection should. and every single year, as i begin placing the stories in our collection, it's a goosebump feeling, because stories set apart by circumstance, gender and generation are woven together as if from the same cloth.

this year's collection is all about light, the aha! kind of light that comes when we finally understand we are on the right road.

advent: noun. "coming into being or use."

i'd say that's what this year's collection is all about. but why don't you see for yourself? our light has come, and you can read all about it here.

but that's not all. this afternoon i sat in the audience to hear my mentor, poet Sally Buckner, read from her collection, Nineteen Visions of Christmas. i was sally's student almost 40 years ago at peace college, and one of the joys of the season throughout the years has been to receive a Christmas poem from her as her card. she has collected some familiar to me, and many not, and listening to the cadence and clarity of her words today reminded me of why i want to be a writer, and how much she has taught me about the craft. i can only hope i have taught my own students half as much.

what a joy, in the midst of this season, to be both teacher and student in one single day. but come to think of it, shouldn't every day be just like that?












writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.

Friday, December 2, 2011

may you write much

it wasn't supposed to be like this. i had been looking forward to dec. 1 because i knew REVERB would be back in action, and i would have something to write about. last year REVERB helped me launch my blog in earnest, giving me ideas each day (well, i didn't listen every day) to get my brain to thinking about the year 2010 and how i had lived it. so i was thinking just the other day, realizing that my blog posts had lagged for a few weeks, that REVERB was coming so i need not worry. i'd be back to writing in no time.

and then i get an email on wednesday saying REVERB is no more. the writers got tired. wanted to write different stuff. and just when i was getting started. and then this: what about doing your own REVERB?  what about inviting the writers (and the non-writers) out there who you know to join in the conversation? 

well, why not indeed?

so. since i had just a day's notice, and best intentions being what they are, i'm a day late.

but i can ask a question that has been noodling in my mind of late: what new did you do this year to challenge yourself? to shake up the mix that is you?

if i had been asked this question a few months ago, i would have found it challenging to answer. my life is pretty mundane. walk the dog, read the paper, pour coffee then the diet coke and head to work. upload and update, edit and remind, take a picture or two, have lunch a lot, pick up the dog, nuzzle, then figure out what to cook. cook. clean up. watch the Sing Off, Glee, The Middle, Modern Family, on down the line. then Sunday  church, lunch with friends (add in a couple of naps) and 60 Minutes, then Dexter and Homeland on Sunday, and that's pretty much my week. (there is a lot of reading in between the doing, books and blogs and newspapers and directions.) then we start all over again on Monday morning. every now and then an adult child will show up to brighten our spaces, or we will take an unexpected side trip, but for the most part — and especially in winter — life is snuggled up tight in the mundane.

and i love it all. love the ritual, the people i am with, the times when i'm alone. the dog. all of it.

but... i do wonder what it would be like to shake up the mix.

a few weeks ago, i did something new. i painted. not like a room or a piece of furniture or anything like that. i painted — a painting. my purple room friend Lee and i, challenged by a gift certificate to this new spot for my latest birthday, took up paints and brush and paper plate palette and painted something pretty. and pretty recognizable.

and this week we added a few more friends and did it again.

a year ago, i would never have considered such, content it appeared, i was in the comfort of what i could already create. what i was known for.

i can't give too much away! santa might just need it
then i picked up the paints and brushes and lost myself for a couple of hours. and it was fun.

i used to love to color, and the favorite day in school was the one when the teacher let us stir the tempera paint. when my kids were small, i'd sit with them while they painted with watercolor tablets or dipped their whole hands into finger paints, but i rarely picked up the brush myself. i wander through art galleries and wonder how in the world artists come up with just those color combinations, that texture on the page. and i have always envied my artist friends, whose work can be enjoyed in an instant. though art, surely, should be wandered through, writing has to be for the reader to appreciate the story in the words assembled there.  

so what does all this mean for you?

this month i want you to share with me. post a comment on my blog to answer my question of the day. or of you have a blog, post it there and send me the link. calling all writers i know out there, and even folks who don't think they can. each day i'll try to answer the question myself, to get you started. and we'll see where it goes.

consider this a gift to yourself. i know participating in REVERB last year was indeed a gift to me.

once again, here's the question: what new did you do this year to challenge yourself? to shake up the mix that is you?

may you write much!




writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.