What I Learned in Our Writing Class

Daisy Parker What I Learned When I signed up for this class, I wanted to learn ways to improve my writing. I wanted to write stories about the farm to enhance my Hamer Farm Presentations. I had know idea this class was going to change my life. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and run to the computer because it comes to me how I need to reword a certain sentence to make the story I’m writing stronger. Sometimes my husband says that he can see me drift off into another world, and he knows that I’m thinking about that story I’m working on. He’ll laugh and say “I can see those little wheels turning in your brain again.” My first children’s book was published in 2002. I’ve wanted to write more books, but I always put it off…too much school work, too many activities with my children, too much cooking and cleaning…excuses, excuses! This class taught me that it was time to take my writing seriously. Writing is very important to me, and it was up to me to make writing a priority in my life. At first I felt inadequate. Everyone in the class seemed like an expert and I was just a beginner, but I thought, I’ve got to start somewhere. I thanked God that I was put with the best so I could learn from the best. My stories probably seemed so simple to the class, but all the advice and the positive comments encouraged me to improve my stories as I revised them. I learned how to set up my own blog! I learned how to comment on the blog to help other writers with their stories, and where to find publishers when I’m ready to publish my stories. This information is worth its weight in gold! My writing is improving with each story. I think about every sentence and what words will make that sentence come to life for the reader. In this class, I’ve read some powerful books that have opened my eyes about writing. When I was reading Stephen King’s book On Writing he said on page 147, “If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it?” This sentence was a wake up call for me. I feel like God’s been tugging on my heart since 1998 to write this book to help children deal with death. I know the title, I can visualize the cover, and I know the message that’s needed. One day soon, this book will be published. Thanks to this class and all that I’ve learned, I ready to start my new life as a writer!

A Morning On His Farm (Final Final Version)

A Morning on His FarmDaisy Parker
Focal Point: Place


A Morning on His Farm

“Grab those buckets, girl.” I almost tripped over the chair leg as I’m running to the back porch to get the two dented buckets. Holding one in each hand, I let the screen door slam behind me as I hurry down the steps to catch up with Uncle Otis.

It will be light soon because I hear that mean old rooster crowing. I’ve been scared of that rooster ever since he chased me. Walking close behind Uncle Otis, I try to place my feet where his black rubber boots are making big footprints in the dew. I feel goose bumps on my arms from the chill in the air, but soon it will be so hot that Uncle Otis will be taking off his tattered straw hat and using the ragged red handkerchief he carries in his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face.

The barnyard perfume fills the air. Only people with a passionate love for farm animals can appreciate this smell. The chain jiggles as Uncle Otis unlocks the gate. The sound of the chain rattling lures about twenty animals to us. They know Uncle Otis is coming. There’s a magical respect between these animals and Uncle Otis. They know his voice, his smell, his touch, and his love. They trust him completely. I would never walk in this pen alone, but when I’m with Uncle Otis, I feel perfectly safe with these magnificent animals.

First we slop the pigs. It looks like garbage to me, but the pigs must love it by the way they gobble it up. I laugh at the huge black sow because the watermelon on her snout looks like she’s wearing smeared red lipstick. When the food is gone, she slowly wobbles to the dry hay and stretches out. Then here comes ten of the cutest black and white squealing piglets stepping all over each other as they snuggle up to her grunting around looking for their breakfast.

The horse, the cows, and the calves follow us to the crib barn. Putting the buckets on the ground, I follow Uncle Otis into the barn. I reach my hand into the burlap sack and scoop up a handful of oats. I slip out the barn holding out my hand to feed the old plow horse, Bell. As she gently nibbles the oats, I feel her soft lips and wet tongue tickle my hand. She lets me pet her soft nose until she sees Uncle Otis carrying the big bucket of oats to her trough. Then she immediately turns away from me and follows him.

I grab my two milk buckets because the moment I’ve been waiting for all week finally arrives. I get to milk a cow! Ol’Betsy knows the routine. She slowly walks into this tiny wooden shed with the rusty tin roof and the dirt floors waiting for Uncle Otis to pour her food into the trough. While she’s eating, he hooks a rope around her neck, and then he sits on the milk stool.

“Daisy Margaret, hand me one of those buckets.”

I watch Uncle Otis place the bucket under Ol’Betsy, and then he gently leans the top of his head against her warm side as his eyes focus on the movement of his strong fingers squeezing the soft udders. The steady beat of the milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sounds like a song to me. I’ve watched him milking Ol’Betsy for five days, and I think…this is going to be so easy.

Not wanting to nag him, I start wiggling around hoping Uncle Otis will notice me. Finally he gets off the milk stool and says, “Sit down and let me show you what to do.” (I think it, but I don’t say it…I already know what to do.)

“Take your thumb and first finger making a circle around her udder. Then squeeze real tight. Next, start curling your other three fingers going down the udder.” (He shows me with his big hands as he explains it).

I try to do exactly what Uncle Otis told me to do…no milk. I try pulling on the udders…no milk. I try twisting the udders…no milk. Ol’Betsy should kick me to make me stop, but she just keeps on eating.

After trying for what seems like hours, huge tears start filling my eyes. Uncle Otis must have noticed my tears. He could have teased me or said I told you it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t.

“Daisy Margaret, I think your hands are just a little bit too small. I bet by next summer when you’re seven, your hands will be much larger and you’ll have this bucket filled up with milk. Why don’t you just talk to Ol’Betsy and make her stand still for me while I finish milking her.”

I never forgot how his kind words healed my broken heart that morning. In later years, he tried several times to teach me how to milk a cow, but I never learned. I guess my hands never got large enough. Uncle Otis taught me how to ride a horse and how to love and respect animals. He also taught me that a family’s love for each other is a true blessing. This quiet, unselfish man never married. He took care of the family farm his entire life. Four years after his death, I proudly named my first born son, Benjamin Otis.

Daddy's Hands

Daisy Parker Focal Point: Person Daddy’s Hands With tubes hooked to every part of his body, monitors reading every vital sign, and busy nurses in and out the room, I feel completely helpless. All I can do is hold the hands of my precious 85 year old daddy who is fighting hard to hang on to life. For the past three days, his hands have been his way of communicating with us. I want to grab my daddy’s life tight in my grip and never let go. As I stare at his hands, I think of all the lives he’s touched. His innocent hands swung the ax to chop firewood and caught that stupid chicken that flapped her wings and scurried away to keep from being locked in the henhouse. His hands learned to dig potatoes, pick cotton, milk a cow, and shoot a gun. Because he was a superb marksman, he helped his family survive the depression by putting meat on their table. Blisters covered his young hands from the back-breaking hours of gripping the handles of the one-horse plow. Despite the blisters, if he ever got a free minute from working, he was tossing or catching a football. His young hands grew into strong hands that handled a football like it was part of his body as he caught amazing touchdown passes to lead his beloved Furman University to many victories. One bitterly cold Christmas Eve, as our family was gathered around the table for the traditional Christmas dinner, the phone rang. A duck hunter had not returned home. Immediately, Daddy and my two older brothers left to help the rescue squad search for the missing hunter. Hours later the young man was found. To keep from freezing to death, he had buried himself under the thick mud and the leaves. Daddy used his hands to scrape the mud and leaves off the shivering boy and then wrapped him in a dry blanket. Through chattering teeth the young man cried, “Thank you, thank you, for saving my life.” He worked three jobs, but always had the time when I needed him. Little girls panic over the silliest things. I was almost in tears because everyone in my class could tell time but me. "Sit down here on the couch and I’ll teach you,” he said. As I cuddle close to him, I loved the comforting smell of his Old Spice after shave. He takes off his watch and carefully explains every detail of a clock to me. He keeps twisting the hands of his watch until I understand. Within thirty minutes, I’m all smiles because telling time is a cinch for me! (I want to feel this closeness one more time, so I pull his hands up to my cheek.) A Daddy’s pure love is what he shared with me, but there was no one on this earth that he loved more than my mother. Even at 85 years old, my daddy would get that precious grin on his face as he told the story of the day he fell in love with my mother. “It was the summer before my senior year in college and I needed money. These strong hands got me a job sweepin’ floors at a mill in Greenville. One day, as I was cleaning, I happened to look out the window and I saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Then I turned to the man working beside me and told him to shake my hand. I want you to be the first man to congratulate me because I’m getting married! See that gorgeous girl. That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” In his college days, Daddy was known for being pretty handy with the girls, but from the moment he saw his beautiful Vonnie, he only had eyes for her. After graduation, he married my mother (she was only 17). Their marriage had the passion of newlyweds for 54 years! Mother died seven years before daddy, and during these difficult years, his love and devotion to her was just as faithful as it was the first moment he saw her. I feel his hand move, bringing me back to reality, as a new nurse enters the room to check his heart rate. He moves his hand again letting me know he wants to write something. Since he can only communicate through his hands, I give him the pencil and he makes a 7 on the paper. I know what this means. Since he can’t talk because of the tub in his throat, he wants me to tell the nurse his hunting story. Daddy knows it’s hard for me to watch him like this, so to keep it cheerful in the room, he wants me to tell stories for him. I smile at him and nod my head. “This is my wonderful daddy. He’s 85 years old and I want you to know he is still a fantastic hunter. This amazing man can still climb in his deer stand, and he has already killed seven deer this season.” I can see his eyes proudly smiling at me through all the pain. A few days later, with his family and friends gathered around his bed, God takes my daddy’s hand as the two of them walk through the gates of heaven. I’m sure my daddy was one happy man when he saw my mother waiting at heaven’s gate for him!

My Mother's Amazing Comfort

Daisy Parker Focal point: Moment in Time My Mother’s Amazing Comfort I glance at the clock. The bright red numbers say 6:13. Thank goodness I don’t have to get up and face this day for 17 more minutes. I sit up and hug my pillow, hoping for some kind of comfort. It still seems like a horrible nightmare. I stare back at the clock – still 6:13. How strange. Today is 6-13-1998…the day I will bury my mother. As I reach to cut off the button on the alarm clock, my fingers touch my Daily Guideposts book that mother gave me last Christmas. I pick up the book. Huge crocodile tears began to drop all over the cover. For just a moment, I cuddle this book in my arms like I would hold a new born baby. I can feel my mother’s love. For more than 10 years, she made sure a Daily Guideposts was under the Christmas tree for me. Giving me this book was just one of the ways she shared her faith with me. Memories started pouring into my mind as fast as water pours out of a faucet. It hurts so bad I want to just turn them off, but I can’t. That’s all I will ever have now – just memories. I slip out of bed still holding my book tight to my chest as I head to the kitchen. With my book still cradled in my arms, I make the coffee. As the coffee’s brewing, I open my Daily Guideposts to June 13, 1998. As I begin reading the words, I can’t believe my eyes. This is the poem that was written on the page… “When I must leave you for a little while Please do not grieve and shed wild tears And hug your sorrow to you through the years. But start out bravely with a gallant smile, And for my sake and in my name Live on and do all things the same. Feed not your loneliness on empty days But fill each waking hour in useful ways. Reach out your hand in comfort and in cheer, And I in turn will comfort you and hold you near. And never, never be afraid to die… I’m waiting for you in the sky!” An instant peace comes over me. The words in this poem tell me what my mother wants me to do. “Coincidence” some may say. I know better. I needed this message to comfort me and to give me strength because my life will never be the same again. I whisper a thank you prayer and ask God to give His newest angel a message from me, “Mother, I’ll love you forever and please don’t worry about me any more. I will live on and do everything in my power to make you proud.” By now the aroma of the coffee has absorbed the kitchen as I am fixing my first cup. A warm comfort is filling my body as I’m sipping the caramel colored coffee (I like extra sugar and cream). Mother loved her coffee this way, too. Wiping the tears from my eyes, the memories of the two of us drinking coffee into the wee hours of the night while we giggled over our silly secrets, brings a smile to my face. I want to stay wrapped in this memory forever, but I feel a “little nudge” letting me know it’s time to come back to reality. Death has taken her body, but death will not steal my memories of her. Good memories are a gift from God, and I plan to use this gift every time I’m lonely or I’m sad or I’m just missing my mother. If it’s only for a brief moment, I can slip away into the comfort of my memories whenever I need to feel her love. I need to quit thinking and get ready. Everyone’s meeting at my parents’ house before the funeral. Walking through the front door, my heart sinks when I see her empty rocker. My mother should be sitting there, smiling at me saying, “Hi Honey, I’m so glad you came over.” I fight back the tears. With the commotion of 46 people in the house, it should be a family reunion, but it’s not. Squeezing between my cousins, I move to the corner of the room. Memories flash through my mind as I gently rub my fingers across the back of Mother’s rocker. Finally I get the courage to call everyone into the living room so I can share the poem from my Daily Guideposts. As they listen to the words, I notice this calming peace on everyone’s face. Then smiling through my tears, I say, “It’s time to go and celebrate her life.” azing Comfort

A Morning on His Farm (Final Version)

Daisy Parker Focal Point: Place A Morning on His Farm “Grab those buckets, girl.” I almost tripped over the chair leg as I’m running to the back porch to get the two dented buckets. Holding one in each hand, I let the screen door slam behind me as I hurry down the steps to catch up with Uncle Otis. It will be light soon because I hear that mean old rooster crowing. I’ve been scared of that rooster ever since he chased me. Walking close behind Uncle Otis, I try to place my feet where his black rubber boots are making big footprints in the dew. I feel goose bumps on my arms from the chill in the air, but soon it will be so hot that Uncle Otis will be taking off his tattered straw hat and using the ragged red handkerchief he carries in his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. The barnyard perfume fills the air. Only people with a passionate love for farm animals can appreciate this smell. The chain jiggles as Uncle Otis unlocks the gate. The sound of the chain rattling lures about twenty animals to us. They know Uncle Otis is coming. There’s a magical respect between these animals and Uncle Otis. They know his voice, his smell, his touch, and his love. They trust him completely. I would never walk in this pen alone, but when I’m with Uncle Otis, I feel perfectly safe with these magnificent animals. First we slop the pigs. It looks like garbage to me, but the pigs must love it by the way they gobble it up. I laugh at the huge black sow because the watermelon on her snout looks like she’s wearing smeared red lipstick. When the food is gone, she slowly wobbles to the dry hay and stretches out. Then here comes ten of the cutest black and white squealing piglets stepping all over each other as they snuggle up to her grunting around looking for their breakfast. The horse, the cows, and the calves follow us to the crib barn. Putting the buckets on the ground, I follow Uncle Otis into the barn. I reach my hand into the burlap sack and scoop up a handful of oats. I slip out the barn holding out my hand to feed the old plow horse, Bell. As she gently nibbles the oats, I feel her soft lips and wet tongue tickle my hand. She lets me pet her soft nose until she sees Uncle Otis carrying the big bucket of oats to her trough. Then she immediately turns away from me and follows him. I grab my two milk buckets because the moment I’ve been waiting for all week finally arrives. I get to milk a cow! Ol’Betsy knows the routine. She slowly walks into this tiny wooden shed with the rusty tin roof and the dirt floors waiting for Uncle Otis to pour her food into the trough. While she’s eating, he hooks a rope around her neck, and then he sits on the milk stool. “Daisy Margaret, hand me one of those buckets.” I watch Uncle Otis place the bucket under Ol’Betsy, and then he gently leans the top of his head against her warm side as his eyes focus on the movement of his strong fingers squeezing the soft udders. The steady beat of the milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sounds like a song to me. I’ve watched him milking Ol’Betsy for five days, and I think…this is going to be so easy. Not wanting to nag him, I start wiggling around hoping Uncle Otis will notice me. Finally he gets off the milk stool and says, “Sit down and let me show you what to do.” (I think it, but I don’t say it…I already know what to do.) "Take your thumb and first finger making a circle around her udder. Then squeeze real tight. Next, start curling your other three fingers going down the udder.” (He shows me with his big hands as he explains it). I try to do exactly what Uncle Otis told me to do…no milk. I try pulling on the udders…no milk. I try twisting the udders…no milk. Ol’Betsy should kick me to make me stop, but she just keeps on eating. After trying for what seems like hours, huge tears start filling my eyes. Uncle Otis must have noticed my tears. He could have teased me or said I told you it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t. "Daisy Margaret, I think your hands are just a little bit too small. I bet by next summer when you’re seven, your hands will be much larger and you’ll have this bucket filled up with milk. Why don’t you just talk to Ol’Betsy and make her stand still for me while I finish milking her.” In later years, he tried several times to teach me how to milk a cow, but I never learned. I guess my hands never got large enough. This quiet, unselfish man never married. He took care of the family farm his entire life. Four years after his death, I proudly named my first born son, Benjamin Otis. I never forgot how his words healed my broken heart that morning. Uncle Otis taught me how to ride a horse and how to love and respect animals. He taught me that life is good and family love is a blessing, and now, that son I named after him, has a beautiful farmer’s tan, a kind heart, and that same love and appreciation for his family’s land!

(Book Review) An American Childhood

(Book Review) An American Childhood Daisy Parker Book Review An American Childhood by Annie Dillard At first I had a hard time getting into Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood. Being a first grade teacher for over 20 years, I am used to reading very simple books. This is not the way she writes. One sentence (11 lines) was an entire paragraph! The more I read, the more I appreciated the way her words made me see it, hear it, and feel it. Her words are so realistic that I felt like I was sharing every moment with her as she describes going to dances, living among the steel factories of Pittsburgh, and listening to her dad sing “Li’Liza Jane”. Being a child growing up in the 50’s like Annie, we had some of the same childhood adventures. When she was describing playing baseball in an empty lot with all the neighborhood kids, it was like she was painting a picture of the empty lot next to my house. I could feel the hurt as Annie tells the story about how disappointed she was because they wouldn’t let girls play Little League baseball, and in the next chapter, I was sharing the thrill she felt as she watches a tornado hit her neighborhood. I loved it when she wrote about playing with the loose skin on her mother’s hands. Immediately, one of my childhood memories pops into my mind. Her words take me back to when I was only four years old, and I was holding the hands of my 100 year old great grandmother as I tried to make the protruding veins disappear. You will enjoy reading An American Childhood because Annie Dillard’s way with words will take you back to a time when children were safe to ride their bikes all around town, roam the neighborhoods with friends, and enjoyed spending summer vacations with their grandparents. She was right on the money when she wrote… “the events of our lives are like dots on a map that God connects to shape us into the person we will become”.

A Morning on His Farm

Daisy Parker Focal Point: Place A Morning on His Farm “Grab those buckets, girl.” I almost trip over the chair leg as I’m running to the back porch to get the two dented buckets. Holding one in each hand, I let the screen door slam behind me, as I hurry down the steps to catch up with Uncle Otis. It will be light soon because I hear that mean old rooster crowing. (I’ve been scared of that rooster ever since he chased me.) Walking close behind Uncle Otis, I try to place my feet where his black rubber boots are making big footprints in the dew. I feel goose bumps on my arms from the chill in the air, but soon it will be so hot that Uncle Otis will be taking off his tattered straw hat and using that ragged red handkerchief he carries in his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. The barnyard perfume fills the air. Only people with a passionate love for farm animals can appreciate this smell. The chain jiggles as Uncle Otis unlocks the gate. It amazes me how this soft sound lures about twenty animals to us. There’s a magical respect between these animals and Uncle Otis. They know his voice, his smell, his touch, and his love. They trust him completely. I would never walk in this pen alone, but when I’m with Uncle Otis, I feel perfectly safe walking among these magnificent animals. First we slop the pigs. It looks like garbage to me, but those pigs must love it by the way they gobble it up. I laugh at the huge black sow because the watermelon on her snout looks like she’s wearing smeared red lipstick. The horse, the cows, and the calves follow us to the crib barn. Putting the buckets on the ground, I follow Uncle Otis into the barn. I reach my hand into the burlap sack and scoop up a handful of oats. I slip out the barn holding out my hand to feed the old plow horse, Bell. As she gently nibbles the oats, I feel her soft lips and wet tongue tickle my hand. She lets me pet her soft nose until she sees Uncle Otis carrying the big bucket of oats to her trough. Then she immediately turns away from me and follows him. I grab my two milk buckets because the moment I’ve been waiting for all week finally arrives. I get to milk a cow! Ol’Betsy knows the routine. She slowly walks into this tiny wooded shed with the rusty tin roof and the dirt floors waiting for Uncle Otis to pour her food into the trough. While she’s eating, he hooks a rope around her neck. Then he sits on the milk stool and reaches for me to give him a bucket. Uncle Otis gently leans his head against Ol’Betsy’s warm side as his eyes focus on the rhythm of his strong fingers squeezing the soft utters. The steady beat of the milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sounds like a song to me. I’ve watched him milking Ol’Betsy for five days, and I think…this is going to be so easy. Not wanting to nag him, I start wiggling around hoping Uncle Otis will notice me. Finally he gets off the milk stool and says, “Sit down and let me show you what to do.” (I think it, but I don’t say it…I already know what to do.) “Take your thumb and first finger making a circle around her utter. Then squeeze real tight. Next, start curling your other three fingers going down the utter.” (He’s showing me with his big hands as he’s explaining it). I try to do exactly what Uncle Otis told me to do…no milk. I try pulling on the utters…no milk. I try twisting the utters……no milk. (Ol’Betsy should kick me to make me stop, but she just keeps on eating.) After trying for what seems like hours, huge tears start filling my eyes. Uncle Otis must have notice my tears. He could have teased me or said I told you it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t. He said, “Daisy Margaret, I think your hands are just a little bit too small. I bet by next summer when you’re seven, your hands will be much larger and you’ll have this bucket filled up with milk. Why don’t you just talk to Ol’Betsy and make her stand still for me while I finish milking her.” I was only six, but I never forgot how his kind words healed my broken heart that morning. Uncle Otis taught me to love and respect people, to be kind to animals, and to ride a horse. He tried several times to teach me how to milk a cow, but I never learned. (I guess my hands never got large enough.) This quiet, unselfish man never married. He took care of the family farm his entire life. Four years after his death, to honor my beloved uncle, I named my first born son, Benjamin Otis.