Walking into a restaurant today I saw a young girl with her mother clutching a baby doll. She held the doll close to her chest, cradling her head and her eyes were bright. It took me back to the times when I was little, and had my "babies" that I played pretend with . I had dollbabies that would drink bottles and cry tears, and when I was playing with them, they came alive and I became mommy. I had beautiful blonde Barbie dolls with gorgeous gowns, outrageous blue eyes and pink corvettes, with a mansion and a beautiful boyfriend named Ken. The idea of making believe, pretending you were mommy, or a cowboy, or a beautiful princess could keep you busy for hours on end, and hope of "making believe" made us anticipate the future.
Making Believe...what a concept. It is thought to be an escape, or an exercise of our imagination when we are younger. When we are older, "making believe" can be negative, like we are avoiding reality. But is it really all that bad to make believe...to force yourself to have hope in something...to produce something that you can trust.
Maybe making believe could actually help us reach dreams we are scared to try and attain, or keep us brave when we are scared of falling apart. When I was a little chunky 4th grader, I was brave and strong when I pretended to be a graceful horse trainer princess (yes, I was a three dimensional character), and I had the chutzpah to try things that normally scared me (like the monkey bars). But in those moments, making believe helped me. Or when I was on stage singing as a little girl and my momma would tell me to "make believe" all the people in the audience had polka-dotted underwear on. That thought in my mind kept me so busy I forgot to be so nervous.
That little girl today touched me so deeply. Her eyes were bright, her smile was big, and her steps were light, she made me remember...
...MAKE YOURSELF BELIEVE...
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Red
So, I have a story for you.
Outside of my apartment building in the parking lot sits a 1973 Ford F100 pickup truck. It was probably once a vivid red color, now faded to orangey-reddish hue, with assorted dents and rust spots that serve as bullet wounds of the life it has led. It cranks up and can go, although I have let it warm up before I go somewhere in it. Red came into my life at a time when I needed family close to me, and a reminder that the stop in the story of my life at the time was not the finishing point, just a pothole.
About 6 years ago, I began a love affair with old pickup trucks. I was travelling quite bit so I saw some awesome ones. I always loved the beat-up trucks. They reminded me of my Dad, a Ford man until his death in 2002, and he always had pickups. I was drawn to them and thought that one day, I would try to get one for myself.
In my South Carolina hometown of 234 people is where I first met Red. I began to notice him in Bobby's backyard when I would visit my mom and I would always ask Bobby to let me drive him, and he would say No every time. So, when I would go home to see Momma, I would always "cut" the block and check to see if Red was still there.
In July 2006, I went home to see Momma and she said that Bobby wanted to see me. I got excited about the possibility of maybe finally driving Red, let alone entertaining the idea of owning him, So we made the drive to Paxville and went to visit. We all chatted for a while and then Bobby and I went outside to see Red. We cranked him up, it took a while at first, and we drove him around the block. No power steering, no AC, no radio. Just me and Bobby and a comfortable silence except for the unusually loud muffler.
Back at the house after the ride, I asked Bobby if I could buy Red. He looks at me and then smiles that fabulous smile, and says, sure, it will cost you a quarter...
I begin to cry, so did Momma and Bobby's wife Sharon. It was one of those moments that I will never forget. I have a picture of me handing Bobby a quarter from that day. He signed the title over to me and in September 2006, Red made the pilgrimage to Nashville and his new home.
I don't drive Red a lot. But when I do, it is calm and peaceful. No radio, in fact I usually sing at the top of my lungs, and I take him down back roads where the traffic is sparse. He is "Home" to me, a reminder of where I came from and all that I hold dear. My family, my roots, my small-town upbringing. He smells like my Daddy when he would come to get me on Friday afternoons after he had been farming all day. There have been nights I sat in Red and just cried on his shoulder.
So that is the story of me and Red. My little piece of Paxville here in Nashvegas.
Outside of my apartment building in the parking lot sits a 1973 Ford F100 pickup truck. It was probably once a vivid red color, now faded to orangey-reddish hue, with assorted dents and rust spots that serve as bullet wounds of the life it has led. It cranks up and can go, although I have let it warm up before I go somewhere in it. Red came into my life at a time when I needed family close to me, and a reminder that the stop in the story of my life at the time was not the finishing point, just a pothole.
About 6 years ago, I began a love affair with old pickup trucks. I was travelling quite bit so I saw some awesome ones. I always loved the beat-up trucks. They reminded me of my Dad, a Ford man until his death in 2002, and he always had pickups. I was drawn to them and thought that one day, I would try to get one for myself.
In my South Carolina hometown of 234 people is where I first met Red. I began to notice him in Bobby's backyard when I would visit my mom and I would always ask Bobby to let me drive him, and he would say No every time. So, when I would go home to see Momma, I would always "cut" the block and check to see if Red was still there.
In July 2006, I went home to see Momma and she said that Bobby wanted to see me. I got excited about the possibility of maybe finally driving Red, let alone entertaining the idea of owning him, So we made the drive to Paxville and went to visit. We all chatted for a while and then Bobby and I went outside to see Red. We cranked him up, it took a while at first, and we drove him around the block. No power steering, no AC, no radio. Just me and Bobby and a comfortable silence except for the unusually loud muffler.
Back at the house after the ride, I asked Bobby if I could buy Red. He looks at me and then smiles that fabulous smile, and says, sure, it will cost you a quarter...
I begin to cry, so did Momma and Bobby's wife Sharon. It was one of those moments that I will never forget. I have a picture of me handing Bobby a quarter from that day. He signed the title over to me and in September 2006, Red made the pilgrimage to Nashville and his new home.
I don't drive Red a lot. But when I do, it is calm and peaceful. No radio, in fact I usually sing at the top of my lungs, and I take him down back roads where the traffic is sparse. He is "Home" to me, a reminder of where I came from and all that I hold dear. My family, my roots, my small-town upbringing. He smells like my Daddy when he would come to get me on Friday afternoons after he had been farming all day. There have been nights I sat in Red and just cried on his shoulder.
So that is the story of me and Red. My little piece of Paxville here in Nashvegas.
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