Queen Kelley

There are many significant causes in this world. The King and I desire to contribute in ways that will ease suffering, support the positive efforts of others, and encourage healthy change.

For various reasons, we have chosen to contribute to causes related to childhood cancer–to organizations like CureSearch, the Ronald McDonald House , the Brain Tumor Foundation for Children, Lighthouse Family Retreat, and Quiet Heroes. One of our reasons for contributing is the inspiration of a little girl named Catie, who passed away in January 2007. She would have turned five years old today.

Of course, I hope that I never have to face such horrific trials involving my own children. We all hope the same thing. But the truth remains that this disease targets 2 classrooms full of children every day. That’s way too many! Turning away in fear or refusing to get involved are not acceptable responses for the King and me.

So, on Catie’s birthday, we pray for her parents and baby sister. We know that Catie is having the best birthday bash ever in heaven, but we can only begin to imagine the longing her parents feel to have her here. We keep donating to causes in Catie’s name, and we pledge not to forget the battle she fought, or the battles too many children are still fighting.

Happy birthday, Catie!

My oldest daughter finds many ways to pass the time we spend in the car. Fortunately, we don’t travel much, but even a 10-minute drive to the library stretches her patience to sit still and listen to the music. (Especially if it’s Mommy’s music.) Lately, as soon as she and her baby sister are buckled into their car seats, before I even back down the driveway, Butterfly says, “Tell me a story.”

As a writer, I should thrill to these words. They should spark my creativity and send me spinning fabulous yarns worthy of writing down and perhaps even submitting for publication. After all, many a published writer of children’s books grew up telling stories. At least that’s what they say in their interviews.

But when Butterfly says these words to me, I freeze. Sitting at a keyboard before a blank screen is one thing. Driving with my eager, detail-oriented, almost three-year-old sitting right behind me is another. Feebly, I try to think of an amazing, original tale that will keep her rapt for the span of the trip. Then, when no inspiration comes, I fall back to “Once upon a time, there was a girl named Little Red Riding Hood.”

“No, Mama!” she interrupts. “Tell me about one, two, three, four, no, five babies and their big sisters and all the mommies and daddies going to the beach.” And it’s as simple as that. She wants to hear this story over and over, every time we get in the car. Sometimes the gargantuan family goes different places–to the zoo, to a fair, to the swimming pool. Sometimes the parents leave the big sisters in charge, and the babies get into all kinds of mischief. These stories delight her. I doubt anyone would ever buy them, though.

Over several car trips, I’ve realized that my life is actually full of stories. In fact, it’s a growing chain of stories that began at my birth and will continue even beyond death, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve remembered how much I enjoyed my mother’s stories about her childhood–how she and her three sisters used to argue; how once at age five she was asked to watch her younger sister, who ended up in the middle of the street and then was picked up by a neighbor who drove her back home; how one night soon after she had her tonsils out she screamed throughout a roller coaster ride and later, when she was in bed, her throat bled; how one of her sisters pulled out every bit of hair around her eyes, including all her eyelashes.

Now I can tell Butterfly (and eventually little Ladybug!) my stories–how my brother, sister, and I lined up dresser drawers and ride-on toys under our carport and made a train; how we hid in the rich, dark hills of earth turned over when our dad had the backyard leveled; how I tripped on the back patio and landed with my arm in a bucket of hot ashes my dad forgot to douse with cold water (and I can show her the scars those burns caused); how my sister and I shared a bedroom almost from the day she was born; how much I loved to sing while I soared through the air in my swing or rode down neighborhood streets on my bicycle.

We all have stories. Some are deep and intense. Others are light and humorous. Some teach lessons. Others are merely for fun. The characters who fill them made us who we are. Even today, we’re part of a story, just waiting to be told.

Madeleine L’Engle, who wrote several dozen books, passed away September 6. She and C. S. Lewis were responsible for opening to me the world of fantasy. I’ve only begun to delve into the rich collection of her writing, but A Wrinkle in Time will always be a favorite. I love her imagination of the possibilities of time and space travel, and especially her willingness to put science with faith and show that they can coexist magnificently and even reinforce each other. This article highlights tributes to a woman whom readers everywhere will remember.

A month and a half ago, I linked to an interview with an author whose first book recently hit stores. Since then, I’ve been checking Robin Brande’s blog nearly every day and have found her down to earth, hilarious, humble, and honest. To put it simply, she’s great fun. How fabulous for me, a lifelong aspiring writer and an avid reader mostly of young adult novels and children’s books, to have such access to the thoughts of a REAL, LIVE, PUBLISHED author. The secret, she says, is to keep going. No one who quits the process ever gets published. I appreciated this quote from a different interview (for an organization called Embracing the Child, by the way, which supplies books to vulnerable kids):

I’ve found if I give myself too much time to work on a book, I end up revising the life out of it. I much prefer the heat of creation, writing a book straight through to the end so I can know how it turns out (I never ever outline–it would completely ruin a book for me if I knew the ending ahead of time).

It seems we writers (whether would-be, still aspiring, or actually published) work in varied ways. Some plan every detail of their books before writing a single scene. Some madly type whatever spills out of their imaginations. Some do a bit of both. Maybe the happy medium is the best place to be, but it’s a tough fence to sit on. Personally, I love the idea of Robin’s way. It seems free and freewheeling, even magical. Giving characters such life and breath that they actually begin to surprise you, doing things you didn’t expect, turning the course of the story in an entirely different direction, delighting you with actions your control-freak personality would never have considered.

My writer friends and I are hoping to get together more often to discuss our projects, ask questions, and help each other lay the groundwork for writing so that, when we have a moment to steal for actually crafting a work, we are prepared. Instead of staring blankly at the screen trying to figure out what scene we should write or what puzzle piece is needed, we might use the time to fill that screen with words. Whether or not we delete them later is another issue.

Some of my friends like to plan their work carefully. I think I prefer the freewheeling approach, even though it may back me into corners at times. If nothing else, at least I can say I have communicated personally with an author for whom this method worked. I’ll let you know what I think of Evolution, Me, and Other Freaks of Nature when I finish.

After reading my sophomore effort at memorializing Granddaddy (see previous post, “A Tenth Grader’s Grief”), I was struck by several things about my fifteen-year-old self. First, I seem rather self-aware. Like many teens, I could be highly dramatic and overly emotional, and I knew it. Reading my words, though, I can recall how strong and real those feelings felt at the time. When I poured out my heart, aided by the sappiest music available, I cried true, hearty tears. Another striking observation is that I considered family essential. Though I often tried to keep them at a distance, my parents, siblings, grandparents, and other extended family members kept me grounded while still letting me search for myself. I’m sure there were times when I pretended not to care about any of them, but they were and still are my lifelines. The final thing that struck me while reading this early essay is that this event, losing Granddaddy, marked my first big step toward disillusionment. I don’t know if we’re all born this way, but I certainly had my fair share of naivete about life. Crises existed, but in my rather small world they were limited to a fall-out with a friend, an argument with my sister about her not staying on her side of the room, hurt feelings when a boy didn’t like me, or frustrations with the way my parents dealt with me. When Granddaddy waged his war with cancer, bits and pieces of my wall of safety begin to crumble. And when he died, an entire section fell away.

I’ve since learned, of course, that as adults we must recreate the illusions and ideals through the beauty that remains in the world–nature in its most glorious state, music so lovely it takes your breath away, fiction that envelops you and carries you away to another time or place or person, your child’s giggles, the unique and wonderful smell of your spouse’s hair. I’ve learned, too, that family is indeed essential, but that it can consist of more than blood relatives. Some of my closest family members continue to be my grandparents, parents, and siblings, but to them I’ve added numerous loyal companions. Finally, I’ve learned that it’s okay to have overly emotional and dramatic moments, as long as they don’t consume all your moments.

Today, when I think of Granddaddy, I regret that he isn’t here to see his grandchildren get married and have their own children, that he isn’t able to keep mentoring his four daughters, that he had to leave his wife’s side. But I also see an old-time country store not a mile from a railroad crossing. In the back, expertly slicing enormous red hunks of meat, stands my Granddaddy. “Hey, Toochie!” he exclaims, then directs me toward the registers at the front, inviting me, as he always does, to choose one piece of candy. Heading from his store to visit Grandmama in the next-door post office, I chew on one of several chunks of banana Laffy Taffy enjoyed at Granddaddy’s expense.

I see, too, a big house whose every room remains solidified in my memory, where I and several cousins shared laughs, tears, good Southern food, talent shows, movies in the basement, scary stories in the dark by the fireplace, the best hide-and-seek spots. I see a yard whose vast expanse offered opportunities to act out scenes from Little House on the Prairie, play a variety of ballgames, hunt dozens and dozens of Easter eggs, climb a dogwood with branches that provided the perfect horseback ride, roll down a hill covered with crunchy leaves, and pick muscadines, sucking out the slimy insides and chewing on the sweet peelings. Granddaddy and Grandmama created and sustained that environment for all of us, and I will always treasure that they lived only a few miles down the road.

I remember stories of how Granddaddy, before he was Granddaddy, defended the black people of his community in his own quiet ways. Whether they were customers or employees at his store, he tried to treat them no differently than he treated the white folks. I didn’t live during that incredibly difficult period, but I am aware enough of the racial issues still pervading the South that I have great respect for how tough this must have been for him. My greatest lesson from him is that people are people, regardless of their origins (and often because of them).

This man, whose photos sit on my dresser where I can see him often, will always be a significant part of who I am. I’m grateful that he lived life so fully.

Occasionally, when I think about writing my young adult novel (I actually have 40 double-spaced pages of writing, but lately I do more ruminating than anything else), I delve into my abundant collection of journals and writings from my childhood and teen years. I want to validate that some of my character’s reactions to her experiences are believable from a girl her age. And yes, I consider myself a somewhat accurate source of validation, as I was a girl her age once.

In my delving, I happened upon reflections about my beloved maternal grandfather, who, at age 66, died in 1993 from treatment complications for lung cancer. One example is these excerpts from an essay I wrote in tenth grade at age 15. I begin with his diagnosis and conclude with the aftermath of his death.

It was November of 1990 and I had just turned thirteen. Being a teenager was already beginning to take its toll on my life. Sudden mood swings were not uncommon, and I would often find myself in my room pouring my heart out while listening to the most dismal songs. The silliest things would set me off: the girls at school had prettier clothes than me, a certain boy had failed to notice my attempts for attention, or Daddy would hand me a harsh word for talking on the phone too much. During those times I would resort to feeling sorry for myself and to thinking of no one but me. Aside from this new adolescence, however, I was mostly a happy person. It’s odd how the news of Granddaddy didn’t devastate me, but I was young and ignorant and incapable of believing something bad could happen to anyone close to me. Meanwhile, he was undergoing surgery and treatments and having to endure the terrible side effects that result from them.

…I see 1992 as a “preparatory” year. It was the year that helped me get ready for what was to come. Many times I struggled with hidden feelings, forever wondering “why?” I pondered many puzzling questions. Why my Granddaddy? Why do medicines designed to make you feel better make you feel worse? Why is God putting our family through this immense trial? I was only fourteen, and I felt totally useless. There was nothing I could do to help him. I couldn’t even find the answers to my questions….

Christmas of 1992 is an especially memorable time. I relished each happy moment and was left with an odd sense of emptiness after each enjoyable event. I desperately craved to put a hold on time, and was careful to record each detail of everything we did, even down to what we ate. As the family and I opened our gifts, I snuck glances at Granddaddy, who was slumped on the couch where he could see everyone. He seemed content and peaceful, but extremely exhausted. He was wearing down.

…Almost immediately following Easter, Granddaddy developed pneumonia, a common occurrence in lung cancer patients. I saw him for the last time on April 12, 1993. My aunt Laurie took cousins John and Cori and me to the hospital. Granddaddy was drifting in and out of a restless sleep, but he awoke to say hello, squeeze our hands rather tightly, then again later to say goodbye. He was able to return home for a couple of weeks, then was rushed back to the hospital when his breathing became difficult. I often experience uncomfortable feelings of guilt that I did not go to see him again, and I have to remind myself that I was indeed able to say goodbye.

…On Saturday, May 1, 1993, I was in my room when the telephone rang. Minutes later, Daddy came to my room and told me gently, “Granddaddy died a little while ago.” So strong was the sympathy in his voice, and so powerful was the meaning of those six words, that when he left I shut my door and crumpled to the floor in tears. All I could think was, “It’s finally over.”

…The funeral took place on May 3, 1993 in the little Woodland Methodist church. That morning my aunt Robin took Cori and me to the funeral home to see his body. It was shocking to see him lying there so still when he had once been so full of life, and my head began to spin. I clutched Cori’s hand for support, then reflected on how well he looked. The rosy color had returned to his flesh, replacing the dull pallor we had become accustomed to. A feeling of peace came over me, for I was assured he was in a better place and that I would see him again some day.