This Page is for the mere purpose of expressing myself. All my life I have felt confined and unable to speek my thoughts . Now however,I wish to put my thoughts into words.I hope you can draw something outof my poetry and perhaps see insight of life through my eyes. Each day there will be a new poem posted up 
UNDISTURBED MEMORIES Recently I had the privledge to have an essay published in a literary magazine called the Anuran 2000. So unlike my normal realm of only poetry I had the privledge to explore essay writing and luckily enough was greeted with a warm reception of acceptance and praise.. Thank you all who have encouraged me and showed me that writing is the only true tool to self expression... Many of you have emailed me and icqed me asking to read the essay so hold on to your seats...lol HERE IS THE ESSAY!!! *S*S*S* I keep the memory of my grandfather alive within my soul. I believe in one’s lifetime a person, or place can leave such a dramatic imprint that nothing can ever erase it from his or her memory, no matter what they try to do. For some it is a memory of a loved one, a soul mate. For others it may be the love towards a friend or an acquaintance. Still, for many it is an imprint left by a family member. For me it is and will forever be the memory of my grandfather. My grandfather was the type of man a person could, by only meeting once, take with him an impression that would last a lifetime. He always knew the right words to say at precisely the right moment; he was a walking enclyopedia. If there was something you did not know, all you had to do was ask. He would always know the answer. One time for instance, my sister asked him what the word dodo meant. My grandfather quickly pointed out that the Mauritis dodo once inhabited the island of Mauritius. The first dodo was reported in 1598 by Dutch colonizers. He also told my sister that the name dodo was derived from the Portuguese word duodo, meaning silly or stupid. Thus, the word dodo could refer to either a person or a bird that is extinct. Up until his passing, I never saw him in anything other than old, faded, tattered and torn blue jean overalls. Day in and day out when I went to see him, I would always wonder what he would be wearing. Would it be different today? I sometimes would sneak up into his bedroom to see if he owned anything else. To my amazement I did see other items of clothing, nestled and straightened on hangers and neatly aligned in his closet. Yet, never did he stray from the consistent pattern that he was known for. Never, that is, until the day he was buried. I can remember the sound of his pocket watch he kept in his front pocket of his overalls. He would place me upon his lap and gently pull out the old, tarnished silver watch. Gently cradling the timepiece in his hands, he would lift the lid to my ears. The tick- tock motion as the hands silently struck with each precise second. He would then close the old pocket watch, engraved with an emblem of a train, and put it back into his pocket. To him it was more then a watch. It was an heirloom that had been passed down by his father. Each day I would eagerly wait for the moment when he would show me that watch he held close to his heart. I can recall how it felt to be held by him. He was a strong man that stood an intimidating height of six feet and five inches. In my eyes, he looked tall as the great oak trees in the back yard. He weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even though his stature was that of a grizzly bear, he was as gentle as a little rabbit that needed comfort and love. Many people were intimidated by my grandfather’s stature. (Little did they know that apart from his outward appearance he was the gentlest, most caring man that ever existed.) If anyone ever wanted to find my grandfather, locating him wasn’t very hard. Every afternoon, after a long day’s work of carpentry, he would be found sitting in the rocker on the back porch of the house. Walking up to the back porch I would find my feet tip-toeing upon little stones that were once resting in the creek. Approaching the white screen door, I would notice a small rip in the screen just above the handle. It was not hard to conclude that his favorite color was green. Once I walked onto the porch I was bombarded with many images and shades of green. The floor was green. The walls were green. The ceiling was painted green. The porch swing and table were green. Everywhere you looked all you saw was green, green, and more green. He was always sitting in the green porch swing on the left side of the porch. From there I could look out the screen window and see the little bird houses he had neatly arranged out in the yard. On many occasions I remember sitting beside him on that swing and looking out to see all the little birds chirping. He was always teaching me new little facts of information. He would point out to me which bird was which, where it originated from, and where it migrated to. On the little ledge beside the swing he would always keep a yellow faded tupperware container filled with ice. In the middle of the ice was nestled a cold beer. He always kept a cold beverage beside him. Whenever he saw my grandmother coming onto the porch, he would start whistling the sounds of Dixie. I use to wonder if he really thought he was fooling her. Surely she knew what he was drinking! The smell was undeniably alcohol. But nevertheless, it was the thrill of the game, the thrill of the chance that she would find out his little secret. As she would walk past us he would glance at me and chuckle. Followed by his chuckle, he would always place his old, wrinkled, callused finger upon my lips and say, “ Shhhh. Our secret, lil’ Daisy.” I would always reply back, “What secret, Paw Paw? I have no clue what you’re talking about.” We always had little secrets between us that kept us connected closer then the average grandparent relationship. My grandfather was my best friend. The sound of his deep voice scolding me when I had been bad was like the sound of a thunder storm beating on the empty sky in the middle of the night. However, when I had not misbehaved his voice was completely opposite, sounding like an angel singing soft praises to the heavens above. An unspoken signal between my grandfather and me was that, each day after school, I would walk down the old plank board steps into the basement. The rail that I held onto seemed to get looser each day. It seemed to be holding itself up just by sure will. Only two little screws kept it in place. I would always make certain not to rush down the stairs as to not get hurt. Once I was downstairs I would take about 10 paces directly in front of me, then pull down the little rusty metal chain to turn the light on. Once the room was illuminated, I would then look over to the right side of the wall. There was a big freezer with a padlock on it. Bending down onto the floor, I could see a little crack in the very bottom of the baseboard, the place where my grandfather kept the key. When I would unlock the freezer I would place the key back into its hiding place and swiftly open the lid. There, to my delight, was a rainbow of colors, a prism of flavors that I could not deny resisting the temptation of devouring all I could get my little hands on. I would glare into the freezer for so long, I felt like my nose was going to fall off. It was a child’s delight, ice cream beyond anyone’s imagination. Flavors ranged from orange sherbet and rocky road to banana and bubblegum. I know that, at any given day, I could open it up and find at least 12 to 15 flavors. The sole purpose of the freezer was to be my ice cream heaven. I could always reach up on the shelf and pick a flavored, colored cone and dip out my grandfather a scoop of vanilla. I of course always would pick banana. The reason the freezer was kept lock was simple- it was another little secret between grandpa and me. No one but us knew what was in the freezer. My grandfather was always playing practical jokes on anyone who was naive enough to be caught into his web of deceit. I remember on one occasion in particular he was going to go till up the garden. Before he did so, he went to the creek bed and found six of the smoothest, round rocks I had ever seen. He then went to the garden with me, and we placed them into the ground. When he tilled the garden up for my grandmother, she took her little straw bucket out into the garden and knelt on bended knee. Diligently she worked, digging up the half-hidden potatoes and placing them into her basket. She never realized what she had picked up until we got back to the house. As grandma started supper, grandpa and I were sitting at the kitchen table playing checkers. We occasionally looked over at her to see what she as doing. She then got to the point of peeling the potatoes. One by one she picked them up, cleaned them, and pealed them. All of a sudden she let out the angriest scream anyone could ever imagine. Words of profanity slipped out of her religious, bible breathing, Baptist speaking mouth. She marched over to the table swaying her arms so quickly; she was lucky they did not fall right off from her body. My grandfather and I had contained our laughter to the point where we could be silent no more. We thought it was hilarious even though she didn't. Once again, we had turned an experience turn into a memory. The memory of my grandfather is kept alive each day when I look into the mirror. When I see my reflection, I see his smile gleaming back at me. The soft angel hair I gently comb back each day is just like his. He used to always carry around a small navy blue comb in his side pocket. Whenever we were about to go into town or even back into the house after a long day work in the garden, he would pull it out and stroke his hair. With each stroke of his hand he would place his salt and pepper hair back nicely and neatly, before making his appearance before my grandmother. I know that even though he is gone, my paw paw is, and will always be, with me each and every second of the day. Whether walking back into the house and looking at his belongings, or even just reflecting on my memories, I know my grandfather will never die. He is looking down from the magnificent realm of heaven, and is smiling upon me. I can even feel his warm embrace comforting me and keeping me from harm. My grandfather is one memory that no one can ever replace or take from me. He is apart of me now and forever. Written by me Donna Elliott in dedication to the heart and soul of my own existance... My grandpa Earl Chatham
***ATTENTION*** Where are you? |
