My 50th birthday was on May 31. I have carried an image in my mind of what it was going to be like to turn 50 for a while. I was looking forward to celebrating with the Emporia and the DK gravel riders. My niece and her family would have been in town, and probably my sister. Maybe other family too. I figured the writers would join me at Mulready's Pub and I'd throw out an invite to farmers market folks. Plans were changed. I did put out a request on FB for cards in the mailbox, and boy oh boy did people come through. It was fun. And all who sent me a card got a chapbook of my 50 x 50 Contemplations project in the mail in return. (This post was added on July 1 for archival purposes and dated to match my birth date.)
Tracy Racene Million Simmons – May 31, 2020
My mother said she sent me to preschool to learn to assert myself, to play well with others. She worried bold wasn’t in my repertoire. It’s okay, Mom. It took me a few years to recognize it in myself. I see it now, a streak of do-it-my-way fifty years long.
I can entertain myself for hours with the stories written inside my head, as well as spook myself into sleeping many nights in a row with the lights on. A mind that could readily conjure images, phantasmagorical and otherwise, was the key to a childhood I’ve never really tucked away.
Too much silence is best filled with sounds birds make when spring arrives, rumble of cat’s purr, chime of niece’s laugh when she calls by video to show me baby doves in her tree. Tapping of fingers on keyboard is also a good sound, captures these moments as they come.
My lifelong struggle with keeping up on current political affairs is the disruption to my sense of peace. I still believe that we could all get along okay if we dropped the labels and met each other for talks at the coffee shop and long walks through the local park.
Words develop a lyrical quality when enough time is spent playing with order. To make a sentence sing, add them and subtract them until I reach just the right note. I may never write a tune for my creations, but I dance to the beat of them just the same.
I no longer apologize for choosing to see my Mondays as magnificent, Tuesdays as terrific, Wednesdays as wonder-filled. The world is a kinder place when one chooses to focus on its marvels. This does not mean I am naĆÆve to hardships; only that I have decided I won’t dwell there.
I used to confuse kindness with other traits, letting people take advantage of my ability to give, invade and reshape my boundaries, use my lack of push-back skills to their advantage. Sometimes the nicest thing one can do for oneself is to be a little selfish and draw hard lines.
Forever is a long time, but some things are everlasting; the swell of my heart where my children are concerned, the ping of regret I get when missing my mother, the thrill of making plans with my love Rand, the deep feeling of content when I hold a purring cat.
I used to long for the ability to speak quickly, envying those who could make a crowd laugh, pull off a quick and witty retort. Yet I have never regretted a decision to be deliberate with my words, to pause and take a breath, to edit myself prior to expression.
I prefer my summer sunshine with a dash of cloud cover, and often we agree to meet in early morn before it gets its passion on and really heats things up. In the wintertime I like it full on, irradiating ice crystals, reflecting bright but cool against a white-blue sky.
Excuse me while I reminisce: I want to tell you about my grandmother who went to college and became a nurse at the age of 56. She traveled far and wide, sent handwritten postcards to the grandkids, let me use her electric typewriter at the kitchen table. It was blue.
Everything I know comes from only 50 years’ experience. It wasn’t so long ago that 50 years sounded like forever away. Some women don’t believe that I’ve actually longed to get here. It wasn’t so long ago, and yet . . . here I am, 50 years of experience achieved.
There is probably not much about my curriculum vitae that would leave you flabbergasted, unless you are one of those doubters who is surprised that I have one, one of those who thinks that a woman who opted to stay at home and raise children perhaps lacked ambition or ability.
Have I come to the conclusion that the world is absolutely, totally screwed? Irrevocably broken? Gone to hell in a handbasket, as my momma would have said? Nope. Come on, now. You know me better than that. I will look for and magnify every silver lining until my last breath.
I have begun to look at my relationships in terms of not only how they impact my levels of energy, but my tone. When interaction with a person consistently brings out the dark in me, it’s time to rethink that relationship. I am better at creating healthy boundaries these days.
I don’t believe histrionic behavior is in my DNA. I am generally motivated to avoid the spotlight, don’t want people looking in my direction, though I’d be pleased if they were all carrying around a book of my words in their pockets, telling all their friends to read me too.
Caring is such an enormous word. It encompasses the feeding and sheltering and clothing of the self, of family, of children; it encompasses a sense of morality—I can act with or without caring what you think of me. Caring can be an act of duty, of art, of love.
Multi-pocketed men’s athletic pants (short and long), t-shirts (short and long-sleeved), tennis shoes with roll-bar technology, and magic socks (for bowling days): this summarizes the attire of authentic me. Though in my mind’s eye, I still wear floral patterned skirts, hoop earrings, and gypsy bangles that chime when I walk.
Tis the season of agoraphobia, it seems. Who knew that we would experience a heyday? That we would become quite usual, in fact. I once flirted with stay-at-home by necessity. Remaining home for your safety (and mine) does not faze me. Though I now long for a wandering road trip.
Ah, the junebug. Innocent of intention; abhorred by little girls with long pigtails. How easily one small critter can disrupt a peaceful evening of playing outdoors. Entering the house beneath porch lights, the rattle before the attack (surely accidental), hard shelled little brown beetle causes many to shiver for life.
Childhood BFF Mandy might suggest that I move my genre to horror with the inclusion of schistosomos reflexus on my contemplations list. She laughs as I consult veterinary pages, my mind now distracted by the idea of writing a short story, featuring Dr. Mandy, where the fetal monster remains alive.
It seems that I have a deep-seated resistance to creating a list of things it would behoove me to do. However, it would behoove you to: Fill your plate with veggies first. Never let your expenses match your whole paycheck. Take a long walk every day. Read purely for pleasure.
That pandemic was shitastic! Perhaps this is how I will describe this time one day. Because as terrible as it is on so many levels, I have found a surprising amount of pleasure. For instance, my endurance for reading many pages of a book in a row is gradually returning.
I may have a more sophisticated view of magic these days, but I absolutely, whole-heartedly believe in my magical bowling socks. They increase my power to roll the ball in straight lines. They make my skinny ankles look more attractive. They occasionally empower me to throw a strike or spare.
I collect brave role models, tuck them in and around my heart, all the while hoping I never need to put in practice what I learn from them. My nephew, John. My friends Sue, Ellen, Gretchen, and Olive. Mom. I fear I won’t measure up if my time gets here.
Love is an action word. It may seem easy at first glance, but for the long-haul it takes work and dedication, frequent reassessment of needs and technique, bettering of application, and sweat equity for all involved. Even when you understand this--give it your everything--love may not be enough.
I claimed spring as my favorite season through most of my adulthood. I think at half a century, it is time to change my stance. As of this moment I declare autumn, a season of change, but with an appreciation for life’s passing that I didn’t see as well before.
Schadenfreude, a fun word to say, is one of the most chilling concepts I can think of. If we all rise and fall on the same wave, as I truly believe we do, to find pleasure in someone else’s pain is also detrimental to those I would choose to protect.
What if the extraordinary is not something big or earth-shaking, but a multitude of everyday, ordinary things? The pause taken when observing loved ones from a distance. That moment you inhale and recognize the scent of coming rain. The quiet times experienced between doing things, appreciating nothing above all else.
I have memories of watching lights circle the room from my crib, of picking up new kittens as large as my two hands, of raising my leg high to straddle a rocking horse with a bell on its nose, and of Granddaddy’s orange chair. He was always telling us stories.
If I had a mix-and-match time machine, I’d start in 1986 where I’d pick up my jubilant mother. I’d proceed to make sure she had a moment to spend with each of her eight grandchildren, only four of whom she ever met, concluding our trip at my niece’s 2013 wedding.
I get so tired of listening to people lament the youth of today. Does it really matter that they don’t write in cursive? Etcetera? If you can’t find a person under the age of 30 who fills you with hope, you are not looking beyond your own regrets hard enough.
Me in 1994, not quite halfway to where I am now, perhaps wide-eyed and opportunistic in approach to potential course-changing life decisions--I would be lying if I did not admit to curiosity about paths not taken, but from here, I can see that the choices I made worked well.
To be brutally honest without filter or ultimately kind with selected truths; that is the conundrum. While I have dabbled with unbridled honesty and found it occasionally cathartic, there is less potential for long-term regret when some words remain unspoken. In the end, why create more regrets than are necessary?
Once upon a time my dream house had a fountain in the middle of a living area that extended into a large greenhouse. Modern me appreciates the simpler floorplan, knows I would only let all those plants die anyway, and may still buy a birdbath for the back yard instead.
If I wrote A Journal of a Coronavirus Year*, a reader might pick it up three hundred years from now, marvel at the familiar scenes. We behave as if everything that happens to us is new and unusual. We’ve worn masks before. Yes, government has told us to do so.
When I was a child, Wichita was the “big city” we drove to, perhaps once a year, a whole three hours away (felt like more). I now make day trips to Wichita and breathe a sigh of relief. After living in Houston, traversing Kansas City, Wichita feels small and home-like.
Quotidian details of my life at half-century; there is ritual to selecting veggies for my morning scrambled egg, the walk with the dogs (really, it’s for me), and the boxes drawn on the schedule must be checkable, preferably in a variety of colors, for aesthetics, not necessarily classification of tasks.
Because I write and edit, people assume I am a stickler for grammer and punctuatoin, yet “grammar police” is a label I find bothersome. At least in correspondence, I’ll take heartfelt sentiment with a dozen typos over shaming someone who struggles to remember rules or express themselves through written communication.
Were my halcyon days those years growing up on the farm, or when my children were little and I was rediscovering my own compass and passions? Or perhaps they were later, traveling abroad with my near-grown children, my dream-team companions for adventure. So many options. It’s the problem to have.
I think a happy career alternative—perhaps book worthy—would be one of serial apprenticing, only not so much as to learn a trade (though a bit of familiarization would be inevitable), but to be a dedicated, personal helper and learn the stories of each individual’s goals, motivations, and processes.
A piece of advice I once got from an author friend pretty much sums up the philosophy behind my actions in all arenas these days; when in doubt, simply do what the writer / mother / friend / citizen / entrepreneur you imagine you are inside your head would do.
If I said I was thirsty for a reckless and wild adventure, just the clothes on my back and a ticket for the next plane out of here, would you ask to come with? Request I snail mail postcards? Would you tell me to have fun or to be safe?
There are times when I would describe myself as a voracious reader, and times when I would simply admit that the world between two pages is the easiest escape, a route to adventure whilst lying safe in my own bed, avoiding a reality I am not yet ready to face.
I would choose the ability to time travel over becoming immortal, primarily because I want to go backward as well as forward in time, visiting places I have only read about in books and futures yet imagined. Though to reinvent oneself, lifetime after lifetime, does sound like an intriguing exercise.
The contrast in tone sparked by one word versus the next is striking when working on this 50 contemplations project. It is a lesson in the power of words, I suppose. Harmless alphabet letters combine to invoke memory or musing, take me down roads of melancholy as well as joy.
If I am considered nothing more than trustworthy at the end, I will be content. I continue to aim for more, but if people simply remember me as someone who was true to their word, whose actions were consistent with my values, and recognized as such, that will be enough.
If I were a philosopher (I had a falling out with that TA in college, never recovered) I suppose I might be of the school of transcendental thinking. I live my own life, but believe our strands are tightly interwoven. I am as much my community as they are me.
I am only fluent, so far, in one language, which is one of my regrets. But there is still plenty of time for immersing myself elsewhere for mastery of tongue, at least of sorts. I’ve not crossed this one off the bucket list, nor given it up as future possibility.
I sometimes examine the plight of others and wonder if my own resilience has never really been tested. More likely, my continuous quest to overcome, to take lessons from the bad, to rise above what pulls me down … leads even me to believe my life has been thus charmed.
BONUS WORDS:
Am I obtuse in my comprehension of phosphorescent properties? True, I am not particularly interested in the facts of quantum physics that make glow-in-the dark possible, just relieved that safer techniques than the radium paint, which took too many lives for too many years thanks to greedy companies, now exist.
*Journal of a Plague Year, by Daniel Defoe, was published in 1722. It is a novel which takes place during the 1660s Bubonic Plague in London. The story is reportedly based on the actual journals of Defoe’s uncle.
Dedicated to Everyone I Know, Have Known, Have Yet to Know
with a significant warm fuzzy going out to each who donated a word to this project: Lindsey Bartlett, Kimberlee Augusto, Onalee Nicklin, Stephanie Schraeder, Roy Beckemeyer, Curtis Becker,
Nancy Julien Kopp, Yvette Ediger, Derek Simmons, Doug Brauer,
Reaona Hemmingway, Crystal Gehrt, Bruce Miller, John Askew,
Kathy Stamatson, Tim Nicklin, Beverly Burney, Stephanie Pinky Juarez, Nettie Million, Dennis Etzel Jr., Amanda Neece, Lois Misegadis,
Sara Robb Nelson, April Neuman, Alma Robison, Lynetta Bauer Skaggs, Louise Pelzl, Charley Osman, Sue Griffith Claridge, Cindi Kerr,
Laura York Guy, Jeani Baker, Adina Sanchez, Simon Old, Elizabeth Yost, Erin Woods, Sandie O’Neal, April Pameticky, Mike Graves,
Tony Sanchez, Sherry Askew, Ann Vignola Anderson, Judy Blackburn, Jerilynn Jones Henrikson, Nancy Hamilton Sturm,
Candace Clover Carver, Brandy Nance, Deb Irsik, Jeremy Dorsey,
Cathie Germes Munsch, Lana Amawi Hanane,
Jan Schroeder, and Brenda White
Moon for a COVID-19 Night, art from our time of stay-at-home,
