I think I can safely bet that these sometimes ominous, telltale and symbolic signs dot one or more lawns of houses on your block. They're cropping up everywhere. Ominous because they are often a blatant testimony to America's economic state today. Telltale because, even if it's not the case, in the back of our mind, we have our assumptions that are, in today's world, more and more true, and finally symbolic...because, these signs, say so much about America's people, without saying anything. All they have to do is stand there, in the lawns of well-manicured and dilapidated houses alike, and we understand.
What are these signs you ask? They are for sale signs. Since moving into my neighborhood on the southside of Sheboygan, Wisconsin I've seen two of them pop up in front of houses on my block. There's a house on the corner where the people only lived there for a year, then up went the sign. Now I'm not just assuming that their house was repossessed, it could've been something completely different, or perhaps they had a job transfer. With so many jobs being shipped to different states and such, it's no wonder that so many people are having to pack up their well rooted lives and plant their family tree in a new, foreign place.
I enjoy talking walks around Sheboygan and surrounding towns with my parents, and lately, I've been seeing one too many for sale signs seated in the front lawns of houses. Most of them, I'll admit, are more than a little dilapidated and in need of repair. But as I'm beginning to see, a good amount of them are in good condition and have well manicured facades and lawns. I can't help but think, as an avid and openly obsessive house fanatic, that most of those houses - in consequence of the stagnant housing market today - will stand glaringly empty and lie in wait for another family to fill it's rooms with furniture and laughter.
Now perhaps you yourself haven't thought of this problem from the house's point of view. You might even count it as strange. But since I invariably root my stories around a historic home, I can't help but look at it from the house's point of view. One minute it's happily filled with a family, laughter and everyday life. The next it's filled with cardboard boxes and then there's nothing but windows to stare into empty rooms and bare walls.
I don't want to get into a discussion about America's economic state today. Because, frankly, I'm not one to discuss government issues and such. I leave that up to other people. Simply by walking around Sheboygan and surrounding towns with my parents this blog post in particular came to be when I began noticing just how many realty signs are parked in front lawns. Overtime our house becomes a part of us, a part of our lives. It's the place where we find respite and cherished comfort after a day's hard work. A place where we come to reconnect with family after going away to college for a year. It's the place where memories are made and stored. A place where we can shelter ourselves from life's storms outside, and it's a place where our family can always be found, no matter what.
Albeit I myself have had to live in many houses over the years, I remember them all. It's something I believe that invariably sticks with you, whether you're an obsessive historic house fanatic like me or not! :-) So, in closing, the next time you see a realty sign pop up on one of your neighbor's lawns, or are simply driving home and notice there were more than last month...stop to think about the story that lies behind that sign. Granted I didn't know any of the families that lived in the two houses for sale on my own block, I still feel compelled to think about them, and what their reason's were.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Antiquing & Daydreaming...Again!
Why, you ask, do I add the word 'again' to the title of this blog post? Well, because, several months back I wrote another blog post entitled Antiquing & Daydreaming and I didn't want to confuse it with this one. You see, the first time I was antiquing around my hometown of Sheboygan, Wisconsin.
This time around however, I was antiquing in Negaunee, Michigan - in the U.P - which was considerably better than drab and monotonous Sheboygan. :-) My family and I hit up a total of three antique shops in one day, and all on the same street! Needless to say I was in a blissful place while my brother invariably gripped with every new store we went to. He's never taken the time to understand the sheer inimitable treasures antiques really are. There's just a certain ambiance about a room when it's lined wall to wall and floor to ceiling with antiques of every size and shape. I feel like I'm stepping back in time, reliving the days of yore that I so yearn to experience. Sometimes I reach out to touch, feeling the elegant curves of bone china plates, admiring the richly ornate millwork carved into the wooden trim of a Victorian fainting couch or love seat. Other times it'll be an old dresser, my captivated expression framed within it's elegantly curved mirror, as if offering a portal to what it's seen.
Often times I ran across little knickknacks and tchotckes layered upon every available surface, each seemed to pull my eyes towards it until I found myself spinning in circles, trying to absorb the room in it's entirety. I felt each room was encompassing a different world, whispering of times when the antiques were pulled from cupboards or shelves for every day use, instead of out on display. A time when the thread barren cushions of the elegantly ornate Victorian furniture received tired bodies after a hard day's work, but which now stand silent, testiment to a bygone era.
Now perhaps you may think I'm reading too much into it. Chances are, with the writer in me incessantly taking hold in every aspect of my life, I probably am. But that has always invariably been my habit in life. Too dig deep into everything, drawing out expansive meanings and hidden messages where apparently none could be found. But this habit, per se, only exemplifies itself more so when I find myself around antiques and historic houses or buildings. Fortunately for me, two of my greatest and most fiery passions were brought together like two rivers leaking into an ocean at the old bank building in Negaunee, Michigan where it's three floors were lined, packed and stuffed with antiques of every kind. I had stepped into pure bliss, and never wanted to leave.
To me, the combining of a historically significant building and even older antiques was quite possibly a fantasy I had played out in my mind for years. In Sheboygan, I don't get around historic houses much so needless to say, again, I was basically lost inside my own head the moment I stepped onto the antique hexagonal shaped tile and underneath a huge, original transom atop heavy wooden doors. May I add that nearly all of the old bank's woodwork was unpainted, which was another factor, a major one at that, feeding my growing fascination with it. Only one room had painted woodwork on the window molding, but since that room was packed with white doilies, white furniture and basically everything else white, the painted woodwork went with everything else.
The bank's first room was where the check-out desk was set-up. Also in the room were two antique chairs and two glass-fronted display cases displaying random trinkets and such. Being a historical house buff I immediately spotted a prominent newel post across the hall. I would've walked right over to see it, but the room in front of me pulled me forward. More unpainted woodwork and wide, over sized windows greeted me, almost making me forget about the antiques scattered throughout the space. Wood floors creaked below my feet as I continued walking through doorways, bringing nostalgic images to mind of one of the many charms of historical buildings and homes.
Speaking of charm, albeit the old bank building was conspicuously rundown and in need of obvious repairs, I still found a way to peel back the layers of dilapidation and see it for it's true elegance, and what it once was. Since it was at one time a bank, I walked into many rooms that had smaller ones off to the side that sported heavy, metal vaults. Some of these vaults held antiques, while others merely stood open, their doors swung wide as if taunting former would-be robbers who could never crack its depths. Most of these smaller rooms also sported old-fashioned schoolhouse lamps hanging from antique metal chains.
Throughout the entire building I split up with my Mom, while my Dad and brother navigated at their own pace, which was habitually faster than that my Mom's and my own. I found that I couldn't overlook a single item, no matter how big or small it was. Of course the fact that I was looking for old skeleton keys to fashion a necklace out of had a lot to do with it. But mostly it boils down to my fierce detail-oriented and attention-to-detail personality. Upon entering any room, whether chock full of antiques or not, I find myself having to look around, I feel a need to acclimate myself with my surroundings. But place me in a historical building with rich woodwork, antique fixtures and haphazardly placed antiques...that habit kicks into overdrive. I knew I could've easily spent much longer than I did in each room weren't it for my Mom continually pulling me out of my head and on to the next room, where I only fall right back into the routine.
While, in the end, I didn't find any skeleton keys, I ended up buying a brass necklace with blue flowers on it that my Mom had spotted on an antique dresser top. Which wasn't so bad because both my Grandpa and my Aunt ended up giving me a few skeleton keys of their own, a nice start to that necklace I plan to make. The generous frosting on the cake you ask? Seeing one of the most beautiful, unpainted cherry wooden staircases I have ever seen. Sure, the newel post was a simple block shape with a square finial and more than it's fair share of skid-marks, and yes, the balustrade wasn't much better and the stair treads were covered in faded pink carpeting...again, I looked past all of that to what the staircase really was. A gorgeous, eye-catching centerpiece of the old bank, where undoubtedly a thousand or more pairs of hands have slid along its worn banister, and heard the same old stair treads complain loudly underfoot. The bank's second floor was just as appealing, offering up more transoms, original woodwork, over sized windows and even a small bathroom that exuded all the charm of yesteryear.
The truth was, for however long my family and I weaved in and out of the labyrinth of rooms, large and small, in the old bank, I felt inexplicably at home. Perhaps it was the atmosphere or mood the unpainted woodwork or haphazard array of antiques and their affect on me. There's no mistaking that I was lost both inside my head and imagination the entire time. Surrounded by so much history and different eras I simply would have found it silly to fight the waves of nostalgia. Perhaps such emotions stem from my habit of basing all of my short stories off historic homes, often using them as the foundation upon which I build the story upward, always drawing back to the base for strength. Or it stems from my passion for antiques in general, and the ambiance they exude. My Aunt, whom I mentioned before, lives on a farm with a 19th century farmhouse. Albeit I don't make it out there as often as I would like to, whenever I step over the threshold I instantly feel at home, as if a part of me just out of reach except through my writing undoubtedly knows that I belong in such a place. A lady who's horse rescue farm I visit also lives on a farm with a historic house. There too I feel at home.
Perhaps one day I will step over my own persona threshold. That which exists between the imaginary historical houses I sketch within my mind and on the pages of my stories in which characters live and the historic house I myself hope to own one day, if only for the reality that all of my stories will come to life, and I will have a literal historic house to base them upon.
Just like coffee or a quick jog in the morning, I believe there are certain things that stimulate us all to release our deepest passions and yearnings in life. For me, I undoubtedly know, that stimulating factor, per se, is historic houses and the rich, undying inspiration they provide me with in my writing each and every day.
I leave you with one question: where does your own source of inspiration lie?
This time around however, I was antiquing in Negaunee, Michigan - in the U.P - which was considerably better than drab and monotonous Sheboygan. :-) My family and I hit up a total of three antique shops in one day, and all on the same street! Needless to say I was in a blissful place while my brother invariably gripped with every new store we went to. He's never taken the time to understand the sheer inimitable treasures antiques really are. There's just a certain ambiance about a room when it's lined wall to wall and floor to ceiling with antiques of every size and shape. I feel like I'm stepping back in time, reliving the days of yore that I so yearn to experience. Sometimes I reach out to touch, feeling the elegant curves of bone china plates, admiring the richly ornate millwork carved into the wooden trim of a Victorian fainting couch or love seat. Other times it'll be an old dresser, my captivated expression framed within it's elegantly curved mirror, as if offering a portal to what it's seen.
Often times I ran across little knickknacks and tchotckes layered upon every available surface, each seemed to pull my eyes towards it until I found myself spinning in circles, trying to absorb the room in it's entirety. I felt each room was encompassing a different world, whispering of times when the antiques were pulled from cupboards or shelves for every day use, instead of out on display. A time when the thread barren cushions of the elegantly ornate Victorian furniture received tired bodies after a hard day's work, but which now stand silent, testiment to a bygone era.
Now perhaps you may think I'm reading too much into it. Chances are, with the writer in me incessantly taking hold in every aspect of my life, I probably am. But that has always invariably been my habit in life. Too dig deep into everything, drawing out expansive meanings and hidden messages where apparently none could be found. But this habit, per se, only exemplifies itself more so when I find myself around antiques and historic houses or buildings. Fortunately for me, two of my greatest and most fiery passions were brought together like two rivers leaking into an ocean at the old bank building in Negaunee, Michigan where it's three floors were lined, packed and stuffed with antiques of every kind. I had stepped into pure bliss, and never wanted to leave.
To me, the combining of a historically significant building and even older antiques was quite possibly a fantasy I had played out in my mind for years. In Sheboygan, I don't get around historic houses much so needless to say, again, I was basically lost inside my own head the moment I stepped onto the antique hexagonal shaped tile and underneath a huge, original transom atop heavy wooden doors. May I add that nearly all of the old bank's woodwork was unpainted, which was another factor, a major one at that, feeding my growing fascination with it. Only one room had painted woodwork on the window molding, but since that room was packed with white doilies, white furniture and basically everything else white, the painted woodwork went with everything else.
The bank's first room was where the check-out desk was set-up. Also in the room were two antique chairs and two glass-fronted display cases displaying random trinkets and such. Being a historical house buff I immediately spotted a prominent newel post across the hall. I would've walked right over to see it, but the room in front of me pulled me forward. More unpainted woodwork and wide, over sized windows greeted me, almost making me forget about the antiques scattered throughout the space. Wood floors creaked below my feet as I continued walking through doorways, bringing nostalgic images to mind of one of the many charms of historical buildings and homes.
Speaking of charm, albeit the old bank building was conspicuously rundown and in need of obvious repairs, I still found a way to peel back the layers of dilapidation and see it for it's true elegance, and what it once was. Since it was at one time a bank, I walked into many rooms that had smaller ones off to the side that sported heavy, metal vaults. Some of these vaults held antiques, while others merely stood open, their doors swung wide as if taunting former would-be robbers who could never crack its depths. Most of these smaller rooms also sported old-fashioned schoolhouse lamps hanging from antique metal chains.
Throughout the entire building I split up with my Mom, while my Dad and brother navigated at their own pace, which was habitually faster than that my Mom's and my own. I found that I couldn't overlook a single item, no matter how big or small it was. Of course the fact that I was looking for old skeleton keys to fashion a necklace out of had a lot to do with it. But mostly it boils down to my fierce detail-oriented and attention-to-detail personality. Upon entering any room, whether chock full of antiques or not, I find myself having to look around, I feel a need to acclimate myself with my surroundings. But place me in a historical building with rich woodwork, antique fixtures and haphazardly placed antiques...that habit kicks into overdrive. I knew I could've easily spent much longer than I did in each room weren't it for my Mom continually pulling me out of my head and on to the next room, where I only fall right back into the routine.
While, in the end, I didn't find any skeleton keys, I ended up buying a brass necklace with blue flowers on it that my Mom had spotted on an antique dresser top. Which wasn't so bad because both my Grandpa and my Aunt ended up giving me a few skeleton keys of their own, a nice start to that necklace I plan to make. The generous frosting on the cake you ask? Seeing one of the most beautiful, unpainted cherry wooden staircases I have ever seen. Sure, the newel post was a simple block shape with a square finial and more than it's fair share of skid-marks, and yes, the balustrade wasn't much better and the stair treads were covered in faded pink carpeting...again, I looked past all of that to what the staircase really was. A gorgeous, eye-catching centerpiece of the old bank, where undoubtedly a thousand or more pairs of hands have slid along its worn banister, and heard the same old stair treads complain loudly underfoot. The bank's second floor was just as appealing, offering up more transoms, original woodwork, over sized windows and even a small bathroom that exuded all the charm of yesteryear.
The truth was, for however long my family and I weaved in and out of the labyrinth of rooms, large and small, in the old bank, I felt inexplicably at home. Perhaps it was the atmosphere or mood the unpainted woodwork or haphazard array of antiques and their affect on me. There's no mistaking that I was lost both inside my head and imagination the entire time. Surrounded by so much history and different eras I simply would have found it silly to fight the waves of nostalgia. Perhaps such emotions stem from my habit of basing all of my short stories off historic homes, often using them as the foundation upon which I build the story upward, always drawing back to the base for strength. Or it stems from my passion for antiques in general, and the ambiance they exude. My Aunt, whom I mentioned before, lives on a farm with a 19th century farmhouse. Albeit I don't make it out there as often as I would like to, whenever I step over the threshold I instantly feel at home, as if a part of me just out of reach except through my writing undoubtedly knows that I belong in such a place. A lady who's horse rescue farm I visit also lives on a farm with a historic house. There too I feel at home.
Perhaps one day I will step over my own persona threshold. That which exists between the imaginary historical houses I sketch within my mind and on the pages of my stories in which characters live and the historic house I myself hope to own one day, if only for the reality that all of my stories will come to life, and I will have a literal historic house to base them upon.
Just like coffee or a quick jog in the morning, I believe there are certain things that stimulate us all to release our deepest passions and yearnings in life. For me, I undoubtedly know, that stimulating factor, per se, is historic houses and the rich, undying inspiration they provide me with in my writing each and every day.
I leave you with one question: where does your own source of inspiration lie?
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Family Road Trip
There are many things that come to mind when thinking of a family road trip. For some of us, it means spending excruciatingly long hours in the backseat with our siblings, listening to our parents grumble with each other and complain about traffic, or spending time away from our friends whom we've been looking to spend some time with since summer started.
For me personally? All these things come into play. After all, what family doesn't nip at each other's throats after a few hours packed into a vehicle amongst the family pet and haphazardly strewn piles of luggage? But a road trip is so much more than that! Take my family for example. Tomorrow we're all headed up to Upper Michigan - the U.P - to visit relatives and such. I'm particularly excited because my Aunt from Pennsylvania is visiting and none of us get to see her that often. Albeit my excitement extends farther than that. Upper Michigan has always been such a beautiful state, so unmarred by cities and industrialization. I can't tell you how many two-lane highways we run into on the way up there. Albeit, yes, they make for a slow and monotonous drive with hundreds of erect pine trees on either side and flat, barren countryside until it seems like the same page in a pop-up book is unfolding again and again. But those lonely stretches of highway are so much more. Yes, the land is barren that they cut through, and yes, the small farms that dot their shoulders are dilapidated and struggling to get by...but there's something so stark about that kind of beauty.
Insignificant towns are another occurrence along these two-lane highways. If you blink once, you'll miss them. But like I've explained before in my blog post entitled "Where The Green Grass Grows" I happen to love small towns, and the countryside in general. So perhaps my fixation and passion for them isn't so inexplicable after all. There's something so charming and homey about the weathered, clapboarded buildings hugging the twin gravel shoulders of those two-lane highways. The one and two story old houses, with sagging facades and tired lines but tidy, well-kept lawns and gardens, hinting at humble pride of their modest dwellings. There might be a bar, or a family-owned diner where the locals and passersby gather and mingle as one, getting caught up in friendly small town banter. Albeit my own relatives don't live in one of these small-town jewels, the neighborhood they live in is still all the more captivated. Dotted with historic homes and steep, narrow streets.
After reading this, you're probably thinking, I thought this blog post was entitled Family Road Trip. And it is! ;-) But to a lifelong writer at heart, the scenery that is passed beyond the windows of the family van between where we live and where we going, is just as much a part of every family road trip as the trip itself is. Often times as pine tree after pine tree blurs past my window, giving the illusion of a watercolor smeared by it's artist, my thoughts will wander and I'll think about what life might be like in those small towns, or how farmers slave out a living on their dilapidated farms. My brother will call me weird, wondering what I could possibly be looking at when in reality there's nothing to look at! How could I explain to him that I was in fact looking at my thoughts, painted before my eyes from the canvas in my mind.
So in reality, those monotonous miles laid out again and again on either side of those narrow highways aren't so bland after all. I guess, to a habitual and inspiration-lies-everywhere writer, no barren stretch of land or random small town flying by isn't merely something to be dismissed, but a potential story just waiting beneath the surface, waiting...for someone to look beyond the wide open spaces to what lies within.
If you ever get the chance to visit Upper Michigan yourself, take a second look at the small towns and farms you pass on those lonely stretches of highway, and look beyond the surface. You might surprised at what you find. :-)
For me personally? All these things come into play. After all, what family doesn't nip at each other's throats after a few hours packed into a vehicle amongst the family pet and haphazardly strewn piles of luggage? But a road trip is so much more than that! Take my family for example. Tomorrow we're all headed up to Upper Michigan - the U.P - to visit relatives and such. I'm particularly excited because my Aunt from Pennsylvania is visiting and none of us get to see her that often. Albeit my excitement extends farther than that. Upper Michigan has always been such a beautiful state, so unmarred by cities and industrialization. I can't tell you how many two-lane highways we run into on the way up there. Albeit, yes, they make for a slow and monotonous drive with hundreds of erect pine trees on either side and flat, barren countryside until it seems like the same page in a pop-up book is unfolding again and again. But those lonely stretches of highway are so much more. Yes, the land is barren that they cut through, and yes, the small farms that dot their shoulders are dilapidated and struggling to get by...but there's something so stark about that kind of beauty.
Insignificant towns are another occurrence along these two-lane highways. If you blink once, you'll miss them. But like I've explained before in my blog post entitled "Where The Green Grass Grows" I happen to love small towns, and the countryside in general. So perhaps my fixation and passion for them isn't so inexplicable after all. There's something so charming and homey about the weathered, clapboarded buildings hugging the twin gravel shoulders of those two-lane highways. The one and two story old houses, with sagging facades and tired lines but tidy, well-kept lawns and gardens, hinting at humble pride of their modest dwellings. There might be a bar, or a family-owned diner where the locals and passersby gather and mingle as one, getting caught up in friendly small town banter. Albeit my own relatives don't live in one of these small-town jewels, the neighborhood they live in is still all the more captivated. Dotted with historic homes and steep, narrow streets.
After reading this, you're probably thinking, I thought this blog post was entitled Family Road Trip. And it is! ;-) But to a lifelong writer at heart, the scenery that is passed beyond the windows of the family van between where we live and where we going, is just as much a part of every family road trip as the trip itself is. Often times as pine tree after pine tree blurs past my window, giving the illusion of a watercolor smeared by it's artist, my thoughts will wander and I'll think about what life might be like in those small towns, or how farmers slave out a living on their dilapidated farms. My brother will call me weird, wondering what I could possibly be looking at when in reality there's nothing to look at! How could I explain to him that I was in fact looking at my thoughts, painted before my eyes from the canvas in my mind.
So in reality, those monotonous miles laid out again and again on either side of those narrow highways aren't so bland after all. I guess, to a habitual and inspiration-lies-everywhere writer, no barren stretch of land or random small town flying by isn't merely something to be dismissed, but a potential story just waiting beneath the surface, waiting...for someone to look beyond the wide open spaces to what lies within.
If you ever get the chance to visit Upper Michigan yourself, take a second look at the small towns and farms you pass on those lonely stretches of highway, and look beyond the surface. You might surprised at what you find. :-)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Thunderstorm Withdrawal
It's a rarely seen and documented phenomenon, albeit many people in Wisconsin invariably suffer from it. Symptoms include feeling estatic whenever the local weather stations forecast thunderstorms - sometimes severe - in the near future. Experiencing quick shots of euphoria when the first throaty growlings of rolling thunder trickle from a storm's first beginnings. Dashing outside or near a westward facing window when the first lightning flashes stains the black sky as if nighttime's veil has parted and Heaven is glimpsed beyond. Or, it could be abandoning that day's previous activites just to wait with baited breath for the anticipated storm, sitting on the edge of your seat...waiting...waiting...and nothing comes.
This is all too often the case in my hometown of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Yet another thing to blame on Lake Michigan, of which I live close to. While I watch severe thunderstorms build to ominous shades of orange, red and even purple and black excitement and trepidation build within me like each crack of thunder and flash of lighting is a heavy rock settling in the pit of my stomach. Building an obsession within me, until it becomes an indistructable fortress like Stone Hedge. But, invariably, those severe storms end up packing all their punch in places like Fond Du Lac and other towns away from the lake, so by the time they reach Sheboygan they have nothing left to give but a few crackles of thunder and a few half-hearted lighting strikes.
For my thunderstorm withdrawal...this simply will not do! I need more! :-) Perhaps to explain the first trickling's of my severe storm obsession and passion I first have to draw upon the final paper I wrote for my college English course. I choose the topic storm chasers and found out a great deal about them. I've always wanted to do something like that, get up close and personal with the tornadoes. But perhaps this wish only stems from the fact that I've never seen a tornado in person, nor have I experienced a storm severe enough to span a tornado. To some this will sound backwards, but...that face saddens me.
There's just something about that booming thunder overhead unleashing its deep, throaty growl overhead from the very belly of the storm. The way it reaches down towards Earth in ripples like a shock wave and rattles every surface around me and shakes my every bone. That's the kind of thunder I like. Where first it begins like the soft fizzling noise a soda can makes when you open it, but then it begins building higher, as if it's climbing up the storm's throat. Finally it breaks the surface, cascading to the Earth below in an explosive punch. Lightning works on me the same way, the brighter it is the better. When a brilliant flash, heat lightning, lights up the night sky in it's entirety it bleaches any room in my house like a singular giant camera flash, freeze framing a moment in time. Other times a singular jagged bolt will snake down from the storm, like a bony witch's finger casting a curse upon whatever it touches. Sometimes several smaller bolts can branch off of it, as if they're being led by the storm and reaching out.
Obviously, by reading this, you've probably come the conclusion that thunderstorms and tornadoes inspire me very deeply. No where else is this so blatantly evident than in my writing. I'm not just talking about my blogs! :-) I'm referring to the many short stories I write. Albeit I've never even set foot there, I've always held an inexplicable passion for Oklahoma, as well as Tornado Alley. But somehow Oklahoma always stands out and ends up being the setting for many of my stories. Take the current story I'm working on, which is a series called Wide Open Spaces. There are five main characters and they all live in a fictional town in Oklahoma's Panhandle. If you'd like to see where my fixation with small towns stems from just read my blog post entitled Where The Green Grass Grows. I'm beginning to see that many of my passions are intertwined with one another. My passion for storms connects to my passion for Oklahoma, my passion for Oklahoma connects to my passion for small towns. My passion for small towns connects to my passion for the countryside. So perhaps my passions aren't so discombobulated and inexplicable after all! :-)
Anyway, my short-story series Wide Open Spaces gives me a chance to delve into my passion for severe weather and couple it with small town life in the countryside. Albeit over my lifetime I am sadden by the fact that I've set to see a true severe thunderstorm, my overactive and wanderlust imagination conjures up storms for me that would most likely brew in Tornado Alley. The things that have always driven my inspiration for my stories are quite simple, and as you've found out already, quite interconnected as well! Not only do storms inspire me with their raw beauty and untamed power but historical homes drive stories into existence. Invariably, just as the character's live in a storm prone area - most likely the Great Plains - so do they live in a historic home. I find it funny and ironic that although I myself have never experienced the violent storms I write about and unfortunately have yet to live in a historic home, I find the most comfort basing my stories off of these two topics. As if my mind has already developed such an imagine of what that would be like, and the stories I write have become so real to me, therefore I find a niche of sorts I can fit my stories into, like a favorite window seat facing the sun.
This blog post is very haphazard, and like I've said before, I have a very strong tendency to get myself off track. My mind often times pours thoughts onto the keyboard like a typewriter hitting random keys and spitting out random words. But, again, like I've said before, I've always been a free handed writer and therefore am indebted to such varied topics. Although, if you look closely, and take the time to read my other blog posts you'll understand...that what I wrote about in the paragraphs wasn't so haphazard after all, but like a vast patchwork of thickly bedded fields stretching across the Great Plains, each one is interconnected. If only by the single border where they meet. But it's enough of a connection to bond them together, each one melding into the other.
This is all too often the case in my hometown of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Yet another thing to blame on Lake Michigan, of which I live close to. While I watch severe thunderstorms build to ominous shades of orange, red and even purple and black excitement and trepidation build within me like each crack of thunder and flash of lighting is a heavy rock settling in the pit of my stomach. Building an obsession within me, until it becomes an indistructable fortress like Stone Hedge. But, invariably, those severe storms end up packing all their punch in places like Fond Du Lac and other towns away from the lake, so by the time they reach Sheboygan they have nothing left to give but a few crackles of thunder and a few half-hearted lighting strikes.
For my thunderstorm withdrawal...this simply will not do! I need more! :-) Perhaps to explain the first trickling's of my severe storm obsession and passion I first have to draw upon the final paper I wrote for my college English course. I choose the topic storm chasers and found out a great deal about them. I've always wanted to do something like that, get up close and personal with the tornadoes. But perhaps this wish only stems from the fact that I've never seen a tornado in person, nor have I experienced a storm severe enough to span a tornado. To some this will sound backwards, but...that face saddens me.
There's just something about that booming thunder overhead unleashing its deep, throaty growl overhead from the very belly of the storm. The way it reaches down towards Earth in ripples like a shock wave and rattles every surface around me and shakes my every bone. That's the kind of thunder I like. Where first it begins like the soft fizzling noise a soda can makes when you open it, but then it begins building higher, as if it's climbing up the storm's throat. Finally it breaks the surface, cascading to the Earth below in an explosive punch. Lightning works on me the same way, the brighter it is the better. When a brilliant flash, heat lightning, lights up the night sky in it's entirety it bleaches any room in my house like a singular giant camera flash, freeze framing a moment in time. Other times a singular jagged bolt will snake down from the storm, like a bony witch's finger casting a curse upon whatever it touches. Sometimes several smaller bolts can branch off of it, as if they're being led by the storm and reaching out.
Obviously, by reading this, you've probably come the conclusion that thunderstorms and tornadoes inspire me very deeply. No where else is this so blatantly evident than in my writing. I'm not just talking about my blogs! :-) I'm referring to the many short stories I write. Albeit I've never even set foot there, I've always held an inexplicable passion for Oklahoma, as well as Tornado Alley. But somehow Oklahoma always stands out and ends up being the setting for many of my stories. Take the current story I'm working on, which is a series called Wide Open Spaces. There are five main characters and they all live in a fictional town in Oklahoma's Panhandle. If you'd like to see where my fixation with small towns stems from just read my blog post entitled Where The Green Grass Grows. I'm beginning to see that many of my passions are intertwined with one another. My passion for storms connects to my passion for Oklahoma, my passion for Oklahoma connects to my passion for small towns. My passion for small towns connects to my passion for the countryside. So perhaps my passions aren't so discombobulated and inexplicable after all! :-)
Anyway, my short-story series Wide Open Spaces gives me a chance to delve into my passion for severe weather and couple it with small town life in the countryside. Albeit over my lifetime I am sadden by the fact that I've set to see a true severe thunderstorm, my overactive and wanderlust imagination conjures up storms for me that would most likely brew in Tornado Alley. The things that have always driven my inspiration for my stories are quite simple, and as you've found out already, quite interconnected as well! Not only do storms inspire me with their raw beauty and untamed power but historical homes drive stories into existence. Invariably, just as the character's live in a storm prone area - most likely the Great Plains - so do they live in a historic home. I find it funny and ironic that although I myself have never experienced the violent storms I write about and unfortunately have yet to live in a historic home, I find the most comfort basing my stories off of these two topics. As if my mind has already developed such an imagine of what that would be like, and the stories I write have become so real to me, therefore I find a niche of sorts I can fit my stories into, like a favorite window seat facing the sun.
This blog post is very haphazard, and like I've said before, I have a very strong tendency to get myself off track. My mind often times pours thoughts onto the keyboard like a typewriter hitting random keys and spitting out random words. But, again, like I've said before, I've always been a free handed writer and therefore am indebted to such varied topics. Although, if you look closely, and take the time to read my other blog posts you'll understand...that what I wrote about in the paragraphs wasn't so haphazard after all, but like a vast patchwork of thickly bedded fields stretching across the Great Plains, each one is interconnected. If only by the single border where they meet. But it's enough of a connection to bond them together, each one melding into the other.
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