grace grits and gardening

ramblings from an arkansas farm girl

Powell Books, Portland, Oregon

By

Grace Grits and Gardening
Saturday we landed in Portland met up with our friends Craig and Lori and headed straight to Powell Books. 
Powell Books, the largest independent bookstore in the world, was the first thing on my Portland ‘must-see’ list. John jumped on board—he’s a book addict too.

Craig and Lori graciously humored us.

Rooms and tunnels and passageways and nooks were crammed with new and used volumes spreading an entire city block. The throng of shoppers made staying together difficult, so we separated knowing eventually we would hook back up. 
Grace Grits and Gardening

I became lost in Literature.

I stood in awe, absorbed within a million worlds. Walking between walls of every-colored books, I touched the spines, some brittle and ancient, some slick and new. I could have lingered two days but exercised extreme self-control and bought only one book. (Where’d You Go Bernadette—it’s on my book wine club list.)

John disappeared into Fiction in search of Donald Harrington books. He feels compelled to give every un-purchased copy of Choiring of the Trees a new home, and I love that about him.

Craig and Lori escaped to a bar around the corner.

talya

“Books are a uniquely portable magic.” 
― Stephen King

AT&T Customer Service Woes

By

This was written for The Writers’ Post Bog Hop #90 hosted by Cattitude and Gratitute – prompt: The Telephone…

Welcome to AT&T U-Verse. To continue in English, press 1. Para Espanol, press 2. For a list of other languages, press 3.

3. Holy Crap! (Hang up. Re-dial…)

Welcome to AT&T U-Verse. To continue in English, press 1. Para Espanol…

1.

Thank you. I see you are calling from 214-xxx-0000. Is this the phone number listed on your AT&T account? Press 1 for yes. 2 for no.

1.

Thank you. To better direct your call, I’ll need your nine digit ban number. Press or say your ban number. Or say “I don’t know it.”

I don’t know it. (Ban number? What the heck’s a ban number?)

Okay let me look it up.

(annoying outer space music much like background noise from a 1982 Atari game…)

Now, I’ll need to get a bit of information to better direct your call. Say the reason for your call. You may say something like “I’d like to make a payment” or “I’d like to check my balance.”

I’d like to speak to a human being. 

Sorry? I didn’t get that. I’ll need a general reason for your call. To make a payment press or say 1, for account balance press or say 2, for technical support press or say 3, for new service press or say 4, for a change of service press or say 5, for order status press or say 6, for billing press or say 7, to disconnect service press or say 8.

I’d. Like. To. Speak. To. A. Human. Being. (I’m tempted to say EIGHT and be done with it…)

That department is closed. Please call back during regular business hours.  Thank you for using AT&T.

(dial tone)

talya
Grace Grits and Gardening

One Ringy Dingy

the dark side of writing

By

A few days ago, I threw myself an old-fashioned pity party.  Just me and my faithful schnauzers.

And potato chips. 

What began as a morning of productive writing spiraled into an afternoon filled with thoughts of what-the-heck-am-I-doing-with-my-life and what-makes-me-think-I-can-write-anything-worthwhile? 
writer's block grace grits and gardening

It was ugly. 
And it all started because I let someone get under my skin. 
A simple comment brought back a flood of insecurities and second guesses. Add to this a lingering sore throat and ear ache plus another 100+ degree day, and I became a crazed and disheartened shut-in wallowing on the couch.

Writing can be lonely and dark on the best of days. Staring at a blank sheet of paper, seeing self-doubt instead of words.

I’m only as good as the last thing I wrote. I don’t remember who said those words, but I understood it, especially on the day of my pity party.

creative writing

And then it began to rain.
In Dallas.
In August.
A steady soaking rain.
From the porch swing I watched fat drops splatter on my tired ferns. The trees took notice as a breeze moved through, dropping the temperature instantly. The entire neighborhood exhaled.
I grabbed my journal and wrote about the rain. Its smell and feel and the way the steam rose from the sidewalk. A few houses down, kids laughed and splashed, delighting in the rareness.
And I remembered why I write.
talya

Grace Grits and Gardening
Farm. Food. Garden. Life.


Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow. -Margaret Atwood 

“Nothing is wasted on the writer. –Crescent Dragonwagon
The Sky is Crying, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Food. Farm. Garden. Life.

THANKS FOR READING!