We all come of age at different ages throughout the ages. That’s a lot of ages but how else do I explain that now in 2013, some people are thirty and still haven’t come of age. Oh, they may have had sex but they haven’t grown up. In the 1800’s, a boy of fifteen or sixteen was a man and expected to work and behave like a man. In the 1950’s, it was common for men to go to war or college and still be a virgin. Now the age of puberty has pushed downward. Girls as young as ten are becoming pregnant. That’s not the norm but fourteen or fifteen seems to be the new norm for sex. With the younger sexual norm, our society seems less emotionally stable.
The room is alice blue. Another paint company might have called it robin’s egg blue. The room was blue with a white ceiling and a water stain. The water stain looked like Abraham Lincoln in his top hat. The curtains were bed sheets. Floral bed sheets with blue cabbage roses on a white background with olive green leaves.
It was a bright room with windows all along the South wall. Two big windows with square panes of glass on the East wall. Nothing matched in that house, not the windows or the people. It was built in pieces. In some places there were axe marks on logs. In other places the logs had been cut with a chainsaw. Other parts of the house were built with modern lumber.
The blue room was cold in winter and hot in summer. It was full of mice, mold, and clutter but it was home. It was a safe haven full of books and found treasures. There were notebooks full of stories and dreams, thoughts of far away places and escape.
© 2013 Nancy Sparks
Humidity. Heavy air making my lungs work harder. It’s OK. They can use the work. I’ve let them go soft. It’s time to get back to my old self. I haven’t stood on this soil in years. It used to be a part of me, ground into the callouses of my feet, under my fingernails and in my clothes.
I left, went away. Thought I’d escaped but I’d only become homeless. Yes, it’s possible to be homeless while living in a four bedroom house in suburbia.I lost my roots. I wanted to escape. I thought I had. I didn’t understand that you don’t really escape your roots. For most of us, it’s there in our accent, in our speech patterns. We can take classes and loose our New York or Southern accent. But there far deeper than our accent is something else that ties us to our home ground. We can’t put our finger on it but it’s there.
Why do cats not like a hissing sound? The average domestic house cat has never seen a snake. It has no reason to fear a snake. It might not know a snake if it saw one. But still cats fear the hissing sound of a snake. It’s a part of their roots. It’s something passed down from their ancestors who had to worry about snakes.
We are all tied to our roots. We can’t escape that part of our roots that tie us to our ancestors. I come from people of the land. I will never be comfortable in a crowded city. That part of my roots, I will carry with me not matter where I travel or live.
© 2013 Nancy Sparks
Time to fly away from here been lying pretty low and it's getting pretty dull So it's time for me to fly away from here Don't be a red dirt girl be a mover, be a shaker try to run, get things done find a cabin in the woods where there ain't no one just me and my thoughts a note book and a fountain pen write it all down let everyone know just who I am what I've done Then it's time to fly away from here to find a new home where I'm not known They'll all hate me but it had to be done I had no choice I had to run © 2013 Nancy Sparks