summersnook.com

Family and Friends

I valued my friends more than I did my family while growing up. I was the oldest of 5 siblings, and other than the brother right beneath me in age (Clint), I wasn’t very close to any of them. My sister Whitney and I fought all the time. She wanted to be a part of everything Clint and I did. We saw her as a nuisance. An annoying tag along. I wanted nothing to do with her, and the rare times we did end up playing together always ended badly. We had slapping and scratching fights. I’m pretty sure she still has my fingernail gouges in her arms.

I shudder to think of how I treated her, but I know we have since forgiven each other, and I’m grateful that we’ve become friends. Sadly, we only started becoming friends right before I got married and moved away. I still feel like there is so much about her I need to get to know. The same goes for my two youngest siblings who were ages 12 and 9 when I moved away. I had dreams of being the big sister to them, that I always should have been to Whitney. But now they’re nearly grown up and of course we still live far away.

I can say now though, that we are all friends, in spite of the distance between us. We don’t communicate with each other that often but we know that we love each other and will be there for each other when we can. I’m pleased that as I’ve grown and matured, I’ve realized what my family has always been. They are my family and my friends, and I miss them!

Elk Neck State Park

This weekend I told Tom I really wanted to go camping (as I have many times before), but this time he said, Okay! Why has he never wanted to go camping before you ask? Well he has, but you see, I always spring these ideas last minute. I don’t like planning ahead because, well, what if I don’t feel like doing such and such a thing when the time comes around? I prefer to be spontaneous. And Tom is too busy with work to plan these things out. So I was thrilled when he decided to go along with my last minute, hair brained idea. We packed and hauled everything out to the car, called a campground we thought we would like and found out we could just show up, so off we went. We headed an hour and a half north of Baltimore up into Elk Neck State Park. We drove over the lovely Suquehanna River on our way:

Shortly thereafter we arrived at Elk Neck Campground and set up our tent. The children found it quite the novelty and enjoyed playing, Go Fish, inside the tent while Tom cooked and I kept getting everything else set up and organized:

We found out at the campground that the admission fee (just $25 a night) also included free entrance to a large recycled tire playground and “beach”. We wondered what the beach would look like, but it was actually a nice little area with coarse sand and water gently lapping at the shore. Too bad we didn’t bring our swimming gear. We mostly just stayed at our campsite, playing catch and enjoying the awesomely perfect weather and crackle of the fire. Oh, and Tom made, I think, the best chicken he has ever made. Here is the master at work:

Before we left he made a spice rub using paprika, pepper, cumin, red pepper, chili powder, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, sugar and celery seasoning. He then butterflied the chicken and slathered the rub both outside and underneath the skin and let it sit in the fridge for 6 hours to absorb the rub. When we got to the campground he first roasted the chicken inside our dutch oven with some Mesquite wood chips and then he finished it on the grill.

It. was. DIVINE! Fully flavored throughout and juicy with super crisp skin. Mmmmmm! We had S’mores after dinner (mine were with Reese’s Pieces) and we sat around enjoying the sounds of the night and the fireflies’ sparkling dance. At one point, as I shone the flashlight toward the tent I saw a little orange toad hopping across our camp site. He was so cute! We all went to bed after that and slept pretty soundly, except for me waking at 3:00 in the morning having to pee! But at least I was able to fall right back asleep. Do you know that it’s a wee bit scary to have to use the bathroom at 3 AM and hear sounds of snapping twigs all around you coming from the forest. The forest was definitely alive, but I figured (and hoped) that most of the creatures I was hearing were small.

In the morning we ate breakfast and took a hike. I just love daddy’s and tiny daughters holding hands, don’t you? Also, little girl pigtails. Too fun!

Along the trail we found some neat “Tarzan” vines:

Of course, the children all wanted to hang on them, but we were a little wary:

After about 8/10 of a mile we reached Turkey Point Lighthouse:

Turkey Point Lighthouse is on a 100 foot high Bluff, overlooking the Elk Neck River and the Chesapeake Bay. the Lighthouse is 31 1/2 feet high and visible for 13 miles. It’s no longer in operation though. The last lighthouse keeper, Fannie May Salter, retired in 1947. We were able to go up into the Lighthouse, which was a pleasant surprise. The lighthouse stairs are very narrow and windy. They lead up to a short straight ladder which then leads into the Watch Room.

The Watch Room and Balcony were both very small and we weren’t allowed out onto the Balcony. Here is the light:

And looking out from the lighthouse at the Elk Neck River and Chesapeake bay:

We had a really wonderful time disappearing for the weekend. We were in an area on the Penninsula where no one could reach us by cell phone and we had no household cares. No TV or radio or other distracting noise. We just had each other to spend time with and it was so wonderful!

Just to let you know…

All Children’s Furniture sells everything from toddler beds to toys. They have tons of great products to choose from, and right now you can win one of those great products over at Perfectly Provident.com. Win a Step 2 Flip and Doodle Easel Desk with Stool! There are multiple ways to enter.This ends July 31, 2009.

A Feature and a Picture

Most of you readers know that I’m a Mormon but you still may not know much about Mormonism. I’m being featured today at a site specifically geared toward Non-Mormons.

Mormon Women is a blog I recently found that tries to battle common misconceptions by offering first hand accounts of what Mormon Women are really like. So if you want to read a little more about me and my faith you can visit me over there today.

Now I’ll leave you with a picture. This is what happened when I assumed she couldn’t pull the caps off of the markers. Where, oh where, did my little baby go?

Delusion, Suffocation and The Writer

Delusion
by Summer Owens

The noble chin which held erect
the wrinkling face with faded smile,
like old jeans washed and starched and bleached;

now a thousand memories all removed,
clouded as in sorrow filled eyes
swollen a moment but all you could see

inside a mirror
where reflection hates reality.
Years of use for self annihilation
as you stare back
piercing cold glass to your core.
Your one friend because it cannot disagree,

and find now what you’re looking for
visible only for want of it
this distortion that you love to see.

Suffocation
by Summer Owens
The burrowing worms in the dirt
are like people searching for
smooth green paper.
Now lusted after
to be digested.

Sends corrupted thoughts spewing
now malignant tumors seeping,
infesting innocence.

This culmination of avarice, virulent,
consuming virtue,
an already dying flame.

The Writer
by Summer Owens

Fingers; frozen, sticky, yet burning at the touch,
seeking to slip into a rhythm and a path.
Like cold water beads
slipping down the slopes of a bare chest in summer.

Ideas become a thousand black stains
smudged in pale skin, coating calluses.

Ink, now fading away,
reminder of a dripping emotion.

Like a balloon, bulging with water
this mind is bloated with ideas,
obese with unsettled thoughts,
bound to leak monotone or explode confusion,
If the right vent is not found.

This, the consideration of the writer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was seventeen when I wrote the above poems. In English class we were studying different styles of poetry and our teacher gave us an assignment to compose a poem in similar style to that of Marianne Moore. I obviously wrote more than one because I enjoyed her style so much. Our teacher wasn’t adamant that we follow her style to exactness but thought the feel of the poem was more important.

I wrote Suffocation first but wasn’t too happy with it, even after many edits. Delusion though, that became my pride. I submitted it to poetry.com and was thrilled to find it accepted for publication. I had hit the big time, I was published! My poem was awesome!

Heh…heh…

Yes, you guessed right if you thought it was a Vanity Press sort of site. They wanted me to pay $50.00 for a huge collection of random poetry which included just one of my own. I was sad to discover what a Vanity Press was. I still really love Delusion though. Even though it’s not a very uplifting poem. It was about who I had been and served as a sort of warning for who I could become if I kept letting the self hatred gnaw away at me.

Then I wrote The Writer. It’s pretty self explanatory and still adequately conveys how I feel when I sit down to write.

A Story - First Chapter

I don’t have much to say right now so I thought I’d share with you the first chapter of a story I began a couple of years ago. Maybe I’ll finish it someday. I don’t know. I got stuck and couldn’t figure out where to go with it after a time. I don’t even have a name for it. Grammar pros beware. I never edited it and don’t really feel like doing so now. :)

“Mendel jerked violently upon her bed. She did not sit up right away but instead surveyed the room around her with one open eye. Her ears strained to hear more of the sound that had woken her. This time when she heard the noise, she did sit up. She paused only a moment before throwing the covers off of her and shuffling to the door where her cream colored shawl hung on its hook. She didn’t bother to slip her stockings on or light a candle after she was properly covered. Instead she quietly opened the door and slipped into the hallway, taking quick but careful steps over the wooden floor. Another sound drifted toward her ears and her steps quickened. She descended the short creaking stairs, and as she took the last step into the entry room she saw the faint glow of a candle emanating from the wash room. The door being slightly ajar, Mendel peeked in, not entirely surprised at what she saw.
Her mothers head was leaning against the wall directly behind the wash basin. There were wisps of hair, wet and sticky, clinging to her cheek which was flushed pink. Her eyes were closed, but not in a peaceful manner. Her breath was ragged and she began to squirm as the next pain came. She tightened her grip on the rim of the basin;her knuckles usually hidden beneath a layer of plump skin, becoming visible. A low groan welled up inside of her, increasing in intensity with the pain and culminating in a sharp sort of yell. Then it seemed to pass and she was left gasping for breath.
A flowing gray skirt swept in front of the door, blocking Mendel’s view momentarily. It made a light swishing sound as it brushed across the floor toward the wash basin. The woman in the gray skirt, the Mystic, Juin, knelt down beside the birthing woman and placed a damp rag on her forehead. At that moment Juin looked up and her eyes met Mendel’s. Mendel scurried away and sat herself on the guest chair in the entry room, wondering if Juin would be angry she had been peeking. She chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail for a moment, wondering if she ought to go back to bed or wait. It might be a long while yet.
A sound tickled her ear then, and she made her way past the wash room into the kitchen where she saw a figure pacing in the dark. Her father. She whispered his name and he stopped, extending an arm to her that was just visible in the dim moonlight that pierced the window curtain. She felt herself enter his embrace and was immediately soothed. She had never seen even a small part of a birthing before and the site of her strong mother sweating and panting in the wash basin had affected her some. She hadn’t known until her father held her, just how frightened she was. He released her then and guided her back into the entry room where they sat down on the bench together, listening and waiting.
Mendel heard the shuffling of Juin’s feet on the floor boards in the wash room. She heard more of her mothers groans and pants and sharp cries. She heard the sounds of water sloshing around in the basin and the thump of her mothers head each time she let it fall against the wall after she had finished with a pain. She heard indistinguishable words of comfort and instruction issued in Juin’s gentle voice. She saw over and over in her mind her mother’s hand gripping the wash basin, flecked with droplets of water. She saw over and over again her mothers pink face creased with pain.
Mendel did not know how much time had passed. The sky was still dark after what seemed to be many hours. Her father had been breathing deeply for some time now so she stood, being careful not to wake him. All had been silent for a few moments so she decided to peek through the cracked door of the wash room again. She was unprepared for the sight that greeted her. Her mother was now squatting in the basin and her arms were trembling under the weight of supporting her body. Her heaving breast was exposed to Mendel’s view. Mendel shrank from the sight and scurried back into the entry room. None to soon, for as she sat back on the bench a great cry irrupted from the wash room which jolted her father awake. He seemed instantly poised to make a dash to his wife’s aid. Then, perhaps realizing he would be able to do nothing, sat back and gave Mendel’s hand a squeeze. A few more long moments passed and after another particularly alarming cry, and just as Mendel noticed the dawn creeping through the entry window, a smaller cry broke on the air. A tiny, gasping, gurgling sound that heralded the arrival of a baby long awaited by every person in the house.”

Vulnerable

I care about what others think. It doesn’t often influence my actions but it can influence how I decide to feel about myself. Sometimes my personal opinions, beliefs and actions-though right and good in my mind-might expose me to ridicule or harsh judgment from others. That’s the way it will always be in life for everyone.

I’ve never been good at letting things roll off my shoulders. I replay unfair events in my head long after they happen, which only serves to rile me up again. I’m not good at shaking off the hurt. But I have gotten much better at it over the years.

In part, I have this blog to thank for that. On June 27th I hit my two year blogging mark. When I started blogging I never had the intention of creating a venue for sharing my innermost thoughts. But that is what it has become, and most of the time I don’t mind. Occasionally though I’ll find myself thinking discouraging thoughts like, ‘What you wrote the other day is so stupid’ or ‘That comment was nice but I’m sure she didn’t really mean it.’

In short no matter how hard I try, I feel vulnerable at times. But I’m not going to stop sharing just because I suspect there might be someone out there mocking me. As I said in a previous post, “I learned that much of what I think others must be thinking of me, is based on my perception of myself.” Of course, not everyone that comes across my blog is going to appreciate my poetry or frankness about mental illness, but I think there may be some who will.

Today I’ll share a piece of poetry I wrote around age 17. It was not too long after the suicide of a friend, and you can be sure I’ll be writing more about my experiences around that in the future. At the time I wrote this poem, I was feeling not only hope but love. I wanted to reach out to others who might be struggling with the same suicidal tendencies I had, and urge them on. As I wrote, I relived the seeming eternity a person spends as they contemplate whether to get it over with now and just how to do so. That moment that you linger between the choice to live or succumb is filled with conflicting thoughts, all so clearly screaming their case inside your head.

This poem-I realized as I wrote it-was written for my past self. It’s God’s voice trying to sway me to live. It’s what I believe He truly does feel.

Live!
by Summer Owens

I’ve been where you stand.
I’ve felt just the same.
Forsaken you feel,
Though I call your name.

Search your mind deeper,
You’ll hear me cry out.
I’m there with you always,
Can’t you hear me shout?

Child don’t come home yet,
You’ve to much to do!
Your life has a purpose,
I’m counting on you!

Though things appear dim now,
I know that you’re strong.
Through desolate feelings,
I’ll help you along.

My hand’s always reaching,
My faith in you, stout.
Follow my voice and
You’ll find our way out.