Several years ago, I wrote a poem about my brother. It was inspired by a time one of my friends came over when I was a teenager (my brother would have probably been somewhere around 8-10 years old). At one point he was chasing the two of us all over the house with a slimy finger that he had inserted and then pulled forth from his nose, booger dangling precariously on the end. I finally locked myself in the bathroom to get away from him but not before I saw him put said finger in his mouth. I promptly vomited.
I have been working on a book of children’s poetry off and on over the past few years and the plan is to draw pictures to go along with them. I was looking through the bits and pieces that I currently have. This one is just too fun not to share now (sorry, Allen)….
My Brother Eats Boogers
My brother eats boogers it makes me quite sick I run away screaming when he starts to pick.
His nostrils are large where his fingers poke through – he pulls them out smiling, all covered with goo.
Then into his mouth he inserts the slime (Feel the need to vomit? Now is the time).
Because there on his tongue with a smack and a gulp his spit forces down the green, lumpy pulp.
I gag and I heave (he thinks that’s quite funny). And, he prays for the days when he finds his nose runny.
Other than that I guess he’s all right. But, if he doesn’t stop soon on some quiet night…
I will sneak in his room (my clever plan goes) and while he is sleeping I will stop up his nose.
I could write several blog posts containing spider stories. My arachnophobia was instilled in me at a young age. Growing up in the Southeast, my siblings and I were often warned to be wary of black widow spiders and brown recluses. I never really knew what a brown recluse spider looked like until I was nearly an adult, but the image of the black widow was distinct in my mind from a very young age.
My favorite toy when I was a kid was a Sit n’ Spin. One day I left it outside. A few days later when I went back out to get it, a large, black spider came running out at me from beneath it. Shrieking, I ran and got my dad and he torched the spider. It had been a black widow and it shook me up quite a lot at how close I had come to potentially getting bitten. That was the first time I had actually seen a black widow spider. Sadly, I was scared to play on my Sit n’ Spin after that.
From Panic to Peace (Sort Of)
I’ve come a long way since then. I respect spiders and am fascinated by them. I don’t like them crawling on me or too close to me, though. I also do not kill them. If inside, I catch or collect them and place them outside.
The black widow in the picture above was in my garden a few years ago. I remember doing some weeding and talking to another little spider that was making its way along the side of the house (yes, I talk to spiders and, no, they don’t usually answer back). I had just turned away from him when a flurry of movement caught my eye. I turned to see the black widow in its tangle web alongside the house. It had captured the other spider I had been talking to. I promptly freaked out because I hadn’t realized how close I had been to the black widow and I ran into the house, tearing my clothes off as I went (‘cause I had this horrible thought that there had been more than one and it was probably crawling on me as I had been brushing up against the house as I made my way down the garden). Once calm, I determined I would have to move it to the woods, but it had disappeared by the time I worked up the nerve to do it.
When Spider Lore Meets Storytelling
I always knew I would have to write a spider story at some point. I should probably write several, as a cathartic process. “The Sewing Lady’s Daughter” came about as I was considering writing a story about a black widow. I wanted to tap into the idea of the black widow killing its mate (which I found out later is a myth) and at the same time not be cliché with it. I thought…what if she had a child? What if it was a girl and she was half-spider? What would happen if she wanted to have a child?
Hence, the story is about the daughter. I like the fairy tale element of the spider falling in love with a human, but the creature instinct still being present. The original version of the story was about fifteen pages with much more build up and exposition. I think I like the shorter version better.
Want to Read the Story?
The Sewing Lady’s Daughter is a haunting little fairy tale about legacy, transformation, and the threads that tie us to our wild selves.
Want to read it for free? I’m offering the short story as a special gift to my email subscribers. Sign up below, and I’ll send it right to your inbox:
I have been looking through some of the old photo albums my grandma has in her house. I don’t know a lot of people in the really old black and white pictures and it is interesting to try to figure out their personalities based on their expressions and posture and such.
Many of the people I do recognize. My grandma is there with a young version of my grandfather who passed away when I was in high school. Grandma’s brothers and sisters are there, too. And then there is my dad and his brother Henry and his deceased sister Kathy.
What I Realized About My Dad
I find it particularly interesting to see younger pictures of my dad. It makes me realize that I know very little about him. Sure, I’ve heard stories about his childhood, but I look at the pictures and I wonder what dreams did this boy have? Perhaps I should ask him.
When I sift through the memories of my dad, something is there I can’t quite put my finger on. My mom was a much more dominant presence in the family. Still is. Thinking about it, it seems that my dad represents strength to me and solidarity. He has physical strength for sure, but I also think of him as the man who never cries. When you’re tough (or strong), you don’t cry, right? (I actually believed that for a really long time).
A Childhood Memory: Our Beach Trip
Anyway, seeing the pictures of my dad and thinking about our relationship over the years reminded me of a poem I wrote quite a while back. Thought I would share it.
Beach Trip The waves seemed higher when I was five or six.
My sister and I would go out as far as our toes could touch the shifting sand.
It was a family event – the beach, the sandy towels, Grandma’s old camper with the bunk bed at the front where I snuggled each night in its dark, secure crevice.
Each morning we’d run out to water with buckets and yelps, and salty breath.
Mom would stretch out in the open to catch the sun.
On rare occasions, my dad would venture with us and we’d press ourselves further into the deep.
The big waves would come, rolling and pushing us under and apart.
My dad’s strong hands held our fragile wrists firmly,
and we bobbed in the vastness of the ocean –
laughing, and unfearing.
Share Your Family Memories
Do you have a favorite memory of your dad? Or maybe a beach trip that lives in your bones the way this one does in mine? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments.
Writing this brought back a wave (pun 100% intended) of feelings—nostalgia, gratitude, and a touch of wonder at how our memories shape us. Thank you for taking this little trip with me.
