Mamaw's Poems

They usually arrive by mail with hummingbirds and roses painted on the face of the envelope. Inside I find a handwritten note and a poem dedicated to me. She’s typed it on the typewriter and so some of the words are misspelled and the alignment is slightly skewed. They speak of cowboys, bluebonnets in Texas, true love, the coming of spring, and the beauty of an honest life. My heritage is preserved in rhyme on hundreds of leaves of paper filed in manila folders.

Living

Good afternoon. Allow me to introduce myself via a tongue-in-cheek perspective of my life as a 20-something, apartment dweller.

Living

I would never dare to whip up marshmallows before sipping powdered hot chocolate or attempt to embroider “I love you Mom” in lieu of a Hallmark card. I have not cataloged the paint chips at Home Depot, nor do I routinely vacuum my drapes. I cannot distinguish between the Noisette and the Damask rose, and I will not hang my life in shadowboxes on the living room wall. I want not linens rich with history, nor do I care to knit my friend a scarf and matching sweater. I think not to address my thank you notes in calligraphy, and every Christmas I fail to wrap the gifts in hand-stamped linen paper. Martha Stewart I am not. Living I am.

I honestly do enjoy reading my Living magazines. Unfortunately, at this time in life, our budget and my time constraints limit my domesticity.

Welcome

Thank you for visiting my blog and for entering into my personal narrative. Please acquaint yourself with who I am and my vision for She Stories. As a new blogger, I'd greatly appreciate any feedback or suggestions you have for me or this blog. So settle back, grab a refreshing glass of Passion Fruit iced tea or that chocolate chip cookie you've been eying, and join me in exploring my own story and the narratives of other women.