Upcoming WordPlay


THE GIFT OF MEMOIR: WRITING PERSONAL AND FAMILY STORIES

(Preserving Family History; Writing for and about Your Family; The Art of Memoir)

Our life stories are a precious legacy. Putting them in writing is a gift to all who know and love us-they can be treasured and enjoyed for generations to come. It is also a gift to ourselves. As best-selling author Rachel Naomi Remen says in her book Kitchen Table Wisdom, facts bring us to knowledge, but stories bring us to wisdom. If you are interested in writing family and/or personal life stories-those significant tales of adventure, transition, love, loss, and triumph, as well as lovely everyday moments from times past or the present, come learn specific tools and techniques to retrieve and record them.

To suit your busy schedule, the summer sessions of The Gift of Memoir are offered individually. $35 each.

WHERE: Covenant Presbyterian Recreation Center, 1000 East Morehead St., Charlotte, 28204. Click here for map.

WHEN: Thursday morning, 10 am to noon, July 24 and/or August 14.

TO REGISTER: Click here to register online.  Or click here for a printable, mail-in form.

SUMMER WRITING RETREAT

(Writing - and More - as Renewal; Creating New Writing)

Renew and delight yourself. The Summer Writing Retreat is an opportunity to create new pieces of writing and/or new possibilities for our lives. Enjoy various seasonal prompts; they have not failed to elicit beautiful material that can be shaped into essays, poems, stories, or articles. After a communal lunch, you'll have private time which can be used to collage, work with a piece of writing from the morning, or play with a number of other writing prompts and methods. You'll take home new ideas, new drafts, and new possibilities. $97 includes lunch and supplies.

WHERE: South Charlotte area. Details will be provided upon registration.
WHEN: Saturday, July 19, 2014, 10 am - 5 pm.

TO REGISTER ONLINE, CLICK HERE. Or click here for a printable, mail-in form.

More WordPlay opportunities at
http://www.wordplaynow.com/classes-and-workshops/

WordPlay Success Story

"Maureen's class not only validated my writing, but also my thoughts about writing, my creativity, and my purpose for writing. Her Spinning Words into Gold is a cherished book that is always close by."

Meet Katey Powell

Writing has been a part of my life since I can remember.  It started with a diary when I was young, poems in school (haiku), and writing lyrics to songs when my heart was broken. As life carried on and became messy, like life can do, struggles began to rear their ugly head. That's when my stories began to take hold in mind and I had to write them down.Topics like my best friend dying, my father's passing away, my struggles with infertility, our adoption of a bi-racial baby, the need for more books about adoption, and the list goes on. I took classes later in life and found an English 101 class that was one of my favorites. My teacher told me that one of my stories made her cry, laugh, and call her dad. She gave me a 100. She also told me that I really should do something with one of my stories, like send it to a magazine. That's when I started thinking about cultivating my writing, all the while saying, "Me a writer, wow, wouldn't that be cool!"  All it took was someone else validating my writing.

My husband knew that I loved to write as I would share my stories with him. So for my birthday he surprised me with a trip to Sunset beach for one of Maureen's writing retreats.  And what a retreat it was.  The writing I did during that trip has filled my "official" writing notebook and more pages have been added. Maureen's class not only validated my writing, but also my thoughts about writing, my creativity, and my purpose for writing. Her Spinning Words into Gold is a cherished book that is always close by. I can honestly say that the beach retreat remains one of the most rewarding experiences in my life!   

I hope that you enjoy this story of my father. He was a great man, a better father and a loving memory in my life. So cry, laugh, and then call your dad if you can. If not, take a moment to remember the good men in our lives and thank God for them.  

My Father's Hands 

by

Katey Powell

My family had recently decided that someone should be with my father at all times, if possible. It was 11:30 pm and my watch. I sat in the dimly lit hospital room listening to all the sounds. Every sound seemed to intensify because of the quietness. Outside the room, the nurses were talking but the words were not clear enough to make out, just a slight humming of quiet conversation. Most patients were asleep.  But it was my time with my dad and I relished it. 

My sister had gone to take a small needed nap in my mother's room on the other side of the hospital. Yes, my mother had to have emergency surgery while my father was in the hospital. Her surgery was minor but had left her with a colostomy. At this point my family and I were trying to spend equal time between the two of them. My father's condition, however, was not improving. His heart doctor had put him on some medicine that had made him take a turn for the worst and it had started to affect his lungs. The damage was permanent.    

The sound of my father's breath was steady. The oxygen level indicator was looking good. I took a deep breath and looked around the room. What a collection of things we had accumulated in a month: a picture from home, a lamp, pictures that my nephew, Seth, had drawn for Grandpa, Dad's cribbage board, his favorite blanket and lots of baskets.  There were baskets full of fruit, baskets full of gum and candy, one full of cards, and one full of funny little toys and gadgets. Dad loved to entertain the grandchildren. We had tried to make him as comfortable as possible and in the process filled his hospital room. My "Poppy," as I referred to him, had been in the hospital since Thanksgiving and it was now January. 

I sat holding his hand. I had held it as I read him his prayer cards hoping that he would fall off to sleep and it had worked. I looked down and examined his hands. They were strong and big. They were worn.  They were my father's hands.

I thought about his hands and all the things that he had done with them. They were dear to me. I kept looking at them. These were the hands that held me when I was a baby. These were the hands that held me and my five siblings. These were the hands that put together our toys late Christmas Eve. These were the hands that held my mother close. These were the hands that built our family's first house. These were the hands that designed bookcases, rabbit hutches and school projects. These were the hands that spanked my bottom when I was bad and the same hands that patted my head when I was good. They were the hands that placed butterfly band aids on our boo-boos so we wouldn't have to go to the hospital again to get stitches. So many memories flooded my mind as I looked at these hands.

My father and I used to lie on the picnic bench outside and look at the clouds. "Do you see the elephant?" he would say as he pointed up toward the clouds. I would align myself so that I could see the end of his hand and spot the figure. We would laugh in delight that we had actually spotted each other's findings. We also loved to sit in the basement listening to Boston Pops symphony and pretend we were conducting the music. My father's hands. 

These were the hands that let go of mine when I took my husband's hand. These were the hands that helped me move what furniture I had into my first apartment. These were the hands that held my shoulder when I had to attend my best friend's funeral. Oh my, if these hands could talk.

All of sudden it dawned on me ... these hands molded my life in one way or another. Whether my father knew it or not, these hands had influenced my life.

I blinked my way back to reality and looked up at my father. These hands surely had different tasks now. They were used for IV's. They were held to take pulses and to administer pills to. They were needed to hold the oxygen mask close to his face because he didn't like the straps.  What a change these hands had taken. I looked closely; they were bruised. They were tired. I held his hand close to my face and longed for him to get better. 

I wanted these hands to hold the child my husband and I would one day adopt. I wanted these hands to pat the bottoms and heads of my children. I wanted these hands to pick up the telephone when we called Grandpa. But deep down inside I knew -- I knew that it could not happen. God had quickly prepared us for letting Dad go. Everyone in the family had seen him. They had visited and spent time with him, even the eight grandchildren. 

It was my brother who lived in California who was holding Dad's hand when he died. The brother who had moved away so many years ago. John was the one of four brothers who hadn't been around a whole lot.  We would see him some holidays and talk to him on the phone, but he had his own separate life in California with his wife and friends. God had saved that special time for my brother to be there with Dad before he passed. It was perfect. 

I look at my hands now. They have been through a lot. They have wiped away many tears. They are strong and loving. They are able. They will have to do some of the jobs of my father. They will definitely have to take the time to pick up my nieces and nephews and hopefully my children. They will have to lift them to my lap and tell them stories of my father. My hands will have to put together toys on Christmas Eve. They will have to spank bottoms and pat heads. They will have to point out figures in the clouds. They will have to do all the things that Poppy did. I have no doubt that they can do it, for one reason alone -- my father lives on in me. I look at my hands and smile. They are my father's hands.        

 
                                                                    ~ Katey Powell

                                                                    September 26, 2002                                                                                       

MAUREEN RYAN GRIFFIN, an award-winning poetry and nonfiction writer, is the author of Spinning Words into Gold, a Hands-On Guide to the Craft of Writing, a grief workbook entitled I Will Never Forget You, and two collections of poetry, This Scatter of Blossoms and When the Leaves Are in the Water. She believes, as author Julia Cameron says, "We are meant to midwife dreams for one another."

Maureen also believes that serious "word work" requires serious WordPlay, as play is how we humans best learn -- and perform. What she loves best is witnessing all the other dreams that come true for her clients along the way. Language, when used with intentionality and focus, is, after all, serious fuel for joy. Here's to yours!