Magnolias & Moonpies

Ahhh! Summer Vacation!

The time for slathering coconut-scented suntan lotion liberally over my extremities and lounging by the pool - with a good book, of course - drenching myself in melty sunshine.

This lasted about 10 minutes before tiny beads of sweat began to trickle . . . well, everywhere. Normally when this occurs, I put the book down and jump into the pool to cool off before resuming the aforesaid lounging position.

Today was different.

As hot as it was, the pool was not. I headed to test the water, and I got in as far as my big toe. The temperature was a cool 80 degrees, far too cold for me. Although 80 degrees sounds warm enough, it's not. Keep in mind that the pool was close to 20 degrees cooler than the average body temperature, and I'm pretty sure that had I actually jumped in, hypothermia would've set in within five to ten minutes of entering the water.

Doggone it! I needed a new cooling-off plan.

Heading back to my lounge chair, I spotted my young son donning his swimsuit (okay, so he couldn't find his swim trunks and settled for last year's practice shorts) standing eagerly at the pool's edge.

"Let's go swimming, Momma!"

"You're crazy! That pool's freezing . . ."

SPLASH!

As I sat watching my young son glide effortlessly through the icy water, my mind drifted off to visit my seven-year-old self . . .

I'm not sure which natural (or unnatural) law explains the temperature tolerance disparity between children and adults, but this is a concept that baffles most of us nonetheless. As I continued watching my child frolic unabashedly, I found myself longing for the days when I could spend hours upon hours in the over-chlorinated pool splish-splashing around until my fingers were pruney and not once feeling the effects of the cold.

But at the present moment, I was hot, sweaty, and my hands and feet were beginning to swell. No way was I getting in that pool, so I opted for the next best summer treat: a popsicle.

It's official. Go ahead and add me to the blogging addicts. . .

Links, links, and more links. Links to some of my favorite authors. Links to some of my favorite illustrators. Even links to reading about reading and writing and drawing. The fact that this excites me only proves that I'm a nerd (as if I required proof!).

I've spent the last few hours accessorizing my blog, and I'm stopping for now.

Excuse me, but I've got some reading to do . . .

Well, I s'pose it was about time I jumped on the blogging bandwagon and created my own blog spot of silly Southern musings and such.

As my first official day of summer begins (yes, I do know that summer doesn't officially start until June 21st - that's why I inserted the 'my' - get it?), so too does the newest outlet for my sarcastic ramblings.

I think we all have some aspirations to be writers, even if we seriously suck at. This is the very reason so many literary agents and editors offer free advice on how to suck less (at the writing part, that is) so they won't have as much sucky-ness to read. Unfortunately, many decline their sage advice and continue their wayward wrongness anyway.

I've been writing since I first learned how to draw my ABC's, a craft I've been honing since I was five. My handwriting has greatly improved since then. Telling stories actually began a few years earlier, or so I've been told. As a gifted child with ADHD (or Will-you-please-pay-attention-when-I'm-talking-to-you-and-quit-that-fidgeting! as it was called back then), I was a victim of over-active imaginationitis. Everyday happenings became stories embellished with a little frosting here and there.

I don't remember much before Kindergarten, but I couldn't write then either. I do, however, remember my Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Allen. She was the epitome of the gentle, soft-spoken teacher that we only see now in fantasy and fairy tales. I'm sure I frosted a few fables for her, but nowhere near as prolifically as those I conjured in the first grade.

Miss Isaacson. Not Mrs. and definitely not teacher (she hated being called that the worst!), but Miss. Keep in mind, she had never been married (what a surprise!), but she was also a bijillion years old. She reminded me of the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz (you know, the one with the green face), and she was just as mean and just as ugly. She even had that same big nose and that omnipresent chin wart. I often expected a house to drop on her at any minute, which is why I never sat too close to her in our reading circle. She didn't like me, and I certainly didn't like her! This is the part where the story telling comes in . . .

The overwhelming fear and dread of entering that classroom led me to conjure many a tall tale. If I were really as sick as I pretended to be, I would be typing this blog from my giant, germ-free bubble. From the basic belly ache, to open, festering wounds, to invisible tree bark in my eye (I got to wear a really cool eye patch with that one!), I frequently visited the nurse's office. I became more creative with my afflictions, as it was necessary in order to get out of class for longer periods of time. Unidentified kids bit me, knocked me down, or pushed me out of the swing; random blows to the head rendered me dizzy, even unconscious at times; I even developed a sudden case of food poisoning from my bologna and cheese sandwich.

When the bee sting on the buttocks story backfired, I'd like to tell you that I'd learned my lesson. I didn't. Instead, we moved. So, I was able to recycle those stories and use them on the next school nurse.

As you can see, I have a flair for the fantastic (and the love of alliteration), so this blog will serve as a story board of sorts - a venue for reliving past stories and creating new ones.