In the Valley

It had been a long day that turned into a long night of shopping, wrapping presents, and visiting with friends and relatives. Christmas was upon us... this day had come so fast. I told the kids, as we drove toward home, “All we have to do now is to wait for the morning to come.” And we did… there was no rush or panic this year.

My grandparents lived in the Verde Valley in Arizona… we were in Texas. Some of my earliest memories of Christmas are that of my Grandmother. We would study the red envelopes that were propped up in our christmas tree branches. They were a steady reminder that our grandparents were thinking of us. The envelopes always had cash in them. The money was crisp and new. The president’s face would peek out from behind a perfectly cut oval in the center of the bank’s envelope.

I was up early… before the children got up. I plugged in the tree and tried to be quiet as I made my morning coffee. I sat for a moment and looked at the lights, the ornaments, the sparkling paper and the shimmering bows. There were little red envelopes that had been placed on the branches of the tree by a family friend. It was a beautiful reminder of the past.

For the first time in years, I reflectively reached for the phone so I could hear the voice of my beautiful grandmother. I can still hear her saying “Merry Christmas Baby.” I smiled as the reality set upon me. Perhaps she could hear my thoughts… I could feel the tradition of her love upon me. She will always be in the peaceful valley of my memories.

                                                               Shannon R Killman  

Nature’s History

There is something romantic about nature’s history... we look around at the objects that surround our lives and attach ourselves to them. They may be gifts that relatives cherished and adored. They might be private keepsakes from our childhood or those of our parents or grandparents.

When our country was young, there were virgin forests of hardwoods and pine for as far as the eye could see or as far as the traveler could journey. These ancient pines and oaks held fast the climates of time and grew strong for centuries. Our little towns are dotted with houses that were built from the sturdy branches and trunks of these centurions. They were felled by hand and sawed with tireless backs to craft the shelters of our ancestors.

Property owners would have chosen a parcel of land based on its location and on its natural resources... which included the availability of trees that could be used to build their homes and build shelter for family members, livestock and for fencing. Some of the trees were two to three hundred years old... the strength of the trees and the fertility of the soil was vital to survival.

I was privileged to be part of a total restoration of a home built in Sumter, South Carolina in 1845. When we first arrived at the shell of a building that once stood so proud, I felt the excitement of history under my hands. This home stood strong against storms, against drought, fire, termites, against vandalism and the strangles of time itself.

This old homestead had been scheduled for a bulldozer’s brashness... the devastation that nature could not put forth. But there was a vision... a vision for new hope and beauty. We added a kitchen where there was no kitchen. We added bathrooms where there never were bathrooms. We replaced ancient wiring and smoothed the sandy plaster. The floors were refinished and the weathered windows replaced. New sweet smelling paint and a new roof finished off our lengthy project. A young family now lives within... starting a life that will keep our little home alive for another century and longer.

There was one portion of the home that could not be saved. Some fifty years ago, the back porch fell to the misfortune of fire. The roof was gone... the exterior walls were gone and the floors were gone. All that was in place were the ancient, preserved floor joists that held support for almost two centuries. We wrestled them out with a fight and piled them on the property’s edge. I kept my eyes on them for weeks and felt protective toward these symbols of strength.

I took the pieces of wood home with me and saved them out of the weather. I held in my hand, wood that was harvested some 165 years ago from trees that may have been 200 years old... their parent trees may have also been two to three hundred years old.

I made this little treasure from a piece of nature’s history. There is no monetary value in it... there is no symbolism... only my admiration for its natural beauty and its ability to survive. I re-cut and shaped the wood... I drilled the heart pine and finished it so the natural grain can be seen. I only hope, perhaps this piece of nature’s history under our care, may survive for another lifetime and beyond.

                                                        Shannon R Killman

of Morning Flavors

I woke this morning to what must have been the sound the air makes as the first rays of sun spill into the room. The golds and whites of the light create a vacuum for the shadows. They give me a path to follow as my eyes adjust from a night of darkness.

There was quiet all around me. The floor felt cool under my feet as I made my way to the kitchen. I scooped the coffee beans into the grinder. The smell of the whole coffee beans is fruity and aromatic… it is the aroma of time and of a craftsman’s patience.

I moved to the century old chopping block that anchors my kitchen. The yellow and white potatoes stand ready with their fragile skins and droplets of cold rinse water. My ears are filled with the rhythmic sounds of my favorite knife piercing and slicing in a well rehearsed cubed pattern. I pause to see the cross hatches in the ancient wood below my knife. Generations of my family have repeated the same chorus as I… perhaps with the smell of coffee in the air and in the quiet.

There is a familiar sizzle in my favorite pan… the rendered bacon grease that adds a depth to the flavor of my potatoes flows around the raw onion that has given in to the edge of my knife. The transparent onion skin reflects a copper light that melts into the watery surface of the ancient maple...  it balances on a torn edge and looks as if it is waiting for an errant breeze to pull it into the air.

The seasoning is like a symphony… the rough texture of the sea salt fades into the crevices of the pan while the pepper grinder glides over and around vibrating under my palm and fingers. A small pinch of cayenne pepper and paprika leave freckles of flavor on every morsel.

Soon the variety and contrasts of color meld into golden brown. The steam from the moisture of the potatoes and onion hover close to the heat and disappear as invisible vapor. After a last toss and stir from my favorite bamboo spoon and a quick cook’s taste… a simple beginning of a warm start of breakfast is ready. The golden brown of the potatoes roll around the caramelized onion and smile upon the shiny white of the kitchen platter. A final contrast of dried parsley pulls the eyes into a green morning’s dance…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Secret Season

I drove to the beach today… slowing to see the cotton fields that stretch across the countryside. I would pass great swaths of farm land in different stages of harvest. The fertile, dark earth in some fields held on to brown stubbles of cotton stems that had given in to the harvest. Around every other country mile, the full, white plants of cotton filled the horizon.

The season was here… the in-between season… the secret season. The cold air was held back by weeks. There was still delicate moisture in the air. The clouds hung low. The air and the landscape looked like winter… it looked cold, but the air was comforting as it filled my lungs. Autumn’s color fought through the constant green of the pines… the winter season was nearing.

I could sense the beach… the air was different. In the summer, the traffic slows and the excitement builds inside as you approach. The last miles are full of sights that fill the mind… the colors of summer reflect off of the sand and off of the neon. But summer has ended… the traffic is gone… the people have made their way home. The sun perches low in the clouded sky and the neon is now a lonely reminder.

I drove down the quiet streets and parked near the boardwalk. It felt odd to be able to choose any spot in the sandy lot. There was no chatter of music in the air… no cars and no aroma of carnival food. The winds of the beach tossed sand underfoot to soften the edges of the concrete.

The beach was clear… no umbrellas… no running children or colorful floats. A solitary kite struggled against the wind in the distance… a dozen gulls huddled together near the dunes and glanced my way as I moved near. The sea knows… the cooling sands know. The secret season is here. There was a quiet comfort… the winds blew the memories of the past through my mind as I stood on the edge of the world.

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Who is it…

Who was it that I first remember laughing with?

Who was it that I remember in footy pajamas?

Who was it that held my hand when I was afraid?
Who was it that I shared my Halloween candy with?

Who was it that I hid my Halloween candy from?

Who was it that I remember wrestling with in the yard?

Who was it that I shared adventures with in the neighborhood?

Who was it that was always introduced as the eldest?

Who was it that answered questions that little boys ask?

Who was it that led me through the halls of my new schools?

Who was it that I could look up to?

Who was it that I fought with?

Who was it that wanted the green bicycle when I wanted red?

Who was it that I could count on when I got in trouble?

Who was it that could keep a secret that needed to be kept?

Who was it that dragged me through the desert?

Who was it that dragged me through the mountains?

Who was it that was there when I grew up?

Who was it that has seen the roads of this country?

Who was it that I looked for when you were away?

Who was it that helped me through my rough times?

Who was it that always had a better old car than me?

Who was it that tells stories of adventures like no other?

Who was it that put me to work?

Who was it that taught me the skills I use today?

Who was it that can cook as well as I can?

Who was it that always remembers to call on my birthday?

It is you… my brother

                                                Shannon R Killman

if Nobody

If nobody served… it would be different

If nobody cared… it would be different

If nobody wondered about the future… it would be different

If nobody had the fire inside… it would be different

If nobody had to convince their parents… it would be different

If nobody had the courage to continue… it would be different

If nobody had to leave their families… it would be different

If nobody survived the training… it would be different

If nobody knew the importance… it would be different

If nobody was serious… it would be different

If nobody was willing… it would be different

If nobody understood bravery… it would be different

If nobody traveled the world… it would be different

If nobody watched our shores… it would be different

If nobody peered through the skies… it would be different

If nobody survived the depths… it would be different

If nobody showed respect… it would be different

If nobody prayed a prayer… it would be different

If nobody was a leader… it would be different

If nobody looked toward home… it would be different

If nobody fell to the earth… it would be different

If nobody shed their blood… it would be different

If nobody did this for strangers… it would be different

If nobody ever said thank you… it would be different

                                                         Shannon R Killman

Smiling Underwater

My son Cody has been taking classes on the weekends for his certificate for scuba diving. There has been quite a bit of classroom training, but they finally started diving. His first trip to the field was in Lake Murray which is a stones throw from our house.

I pulled into the parking area of a public access to the lake and searched for signs of my family who were watching the diving class. I heard the familiar tones of my younger children echoing off of the water. I walked over to the edge of the dam and saw my wife and kids perched on the spillway like little ducks. It was early afternoon and the sun was battling with the wind and clouds for time against our skin. The clouds were thick and heavy. They were swollen with water and teased us with an occasional rain drop.

We sat next to the staging area close to some concrete steps that led into the water. There were a dozen and a half oxygen tanks soldiered upon a blue tarp that sat under an oak tree next to us. We were in the right place… we quietly waited for some activity. We heard the occasional flipper that pierced the surface and watched bubbles rise. Dark, seal-like heads would pop up from time to time and we would try and guess which one of the divers was Cody.

The November water was cold… like the wind. And just as we decided to make our way toward the vehicles, the group of divers made their way toward us. We found our Cody. Whispers of blonde hair that were not protected by his wet suit gave him away even before he removed his mask to give us a smile and a wave of acknowledgment.

 

His hands were cold and he pulled them to his palms in rhythm trying to warm them up. We wanted to help him with his tanks and his suit, but we held back… afraid to interfere with the class. I saw Jackson pulling at the seams of Cody’s diving bag. He hurriedly tugged on the zipper to ready it for the equipment. He saw me watching him and reluctantly pulled back with a smile.

 All of our eyes were drawn to see what Cody was prying from his driver’s pouch. Underneath the tear of Velcro appeared a treasure. We gathered together to watch him pull a forgotten bottle out of his pocket. I watched him admire it. He rubbed his hand over the surface and onto the neck of the clear glass. He smiled and held it out to his mother. Six little hands ran interference until she was able to take it from him. We all wanted to know where it came from and how he could see it in the murky waters of the lake.

The excitement of this first diving trip may escape him as he gets older. The magical feeling he must have felt as he first touched that little treasure will come in different forms as he finds different paths to follow. But who can know what this may lead to. He may use this day to follow a dream that will lead him to a world of crystal waters. I just hope he can hold on to the feeling of freedom… the comfort of his family beside him and the emotion of finding something special and unexpected. I can still remember him as a little boy playing in the bathtub with a new toy… smiling underwater and blowing bubbles.

                                                         Shannon R Killman

He Knows

Some may have looked to others…

Some my have sought advice…

Some may have walked in the shadows…

Some may have tired…

Some may have insisted on help…

Some may have been needy…

Some may have failed to hold the hand of the lonely…

Some may have not noticed the sadness…

Some may have strayed…

Some may have not given their heart…

Some may have not smiled…

Some may have taken the criticism…

Some may have not cared…

Some may have not felt the details…

Some may not have recognized the rewards…

Some may not have had the faith…

Some may have known…

Some may not have known…

He knows… He knows you were faithful…

                                                Shannon R Killman

I Prefer

I prefer the calm… the flavors of a small, still voice.

I prefer the softness… the whispers of love.

I prefer the warmth… the comfort that comes with time.

I prefer the reflections… the memories of joy.

I prefer the sands… the shores of lapping waters.

I prefer the peace… the slow reactions, slow communication.

I prefer the energy… the brief spark from the eyes.

I prefer the strength… the confidence in body and soul.

I prefer the laughter… the magic of spontaneity.

I prefer the deeds… the power over words.

I prefer the friendship… the evidence over distance.

I prefer the water… the ability to cleanse... to purify.

I prefer the dreams… the escape of the mind’s boundaries.

I prefer the mist… the curtain of imagination.

I prefer the joy… the journey of purpose.

I prefer the truth… the words of reality given with care.

I prefer the breeze… the steady reminder of possibilities.

I prefer the time… the past that flees like a playful child.

I prefer the daydream… the secret escape.

I prefer the unexpected… the compromise of life.

I prefer the smiles… the windows of internal truth.

I prefer the morning light… the promise of a new day.

                                                Shannon R Killman

Nothing Special

Nothing special happened this morning…  I woke up slowly… my body was rested and I thought about my dreams. The house was quiet… the sun drifted into the window at my feet and warmed the cool floor. I walked outside to hear the rustle of the leaves chasing the shadows left by night. The grass whispered to the sky… "It’s time to rest… it's time to sleep". I relaxed within my thoughts… the sun warmed my skin as the gentle breaths of wind teased my senses. Nothing special happened while I waited for my coffee to brew… the familiar aroma filled my lungs and drew my attention away from the sleepy cat… she patiently waited for her morning snack and rubbed against my leg as a thank you. Nothing special happened as I watched the moving swirls of cream melt into my favorite cup. Nothing special happened as I reflected on my life, my God and my place in time. Nothing special happened as I remained at peace…

                                                                    Shannon R Killman

Hollows Eve

One night in October…  I don’t remember it being too cold… I don’t remember it being scary… I don’t remember any danger. But, I do remember the excitement, the energy and the anticipation. Finally, it was here! I remember laying out the master plan with my friends to make sure we had the most efficient route for maximum results.

 “I think I’m going to be a pirate … I can use some charcoal to paint my face to look like a beard. I have some old jeans that I can shred at the bottom and I think I’m going to wear my mom’s white fluffy shirt and a bandanna from my camping stuff. I’ll get one of my Grandmother’s hoop earrings. “

It was that easy. Or maybe it was hard to decide what you wanted to be. But, it was exciting and the prospect of hauling in all of that candy was intoxicating. I remember giggles and a slight bit of nervousness. There were safety pins... there were always safety pins. Mom would fuss over us and tuck and fold… more tucking and fixing.

I would stand in front of the mirror like a king while I was fussed over. And… the photographs… lots of pictures. I remember being fascinated by the flashbulbs. We had a camera with a new flashbulb attachment. It had four bulbs on one cube. When you took one picture, it would spin around and ready the next. I remember wanting to touch it to see if it was still hot. It felt strange under my fingers, like the skin of an egg roll.

I remember meeting up with my neighborhood friends and yes… more pictures. Then we were off with warnings and directions from on-looking mothers. We ran from house to house. We scanned the streets that were full of ghouls and ghosts. The sun was going down and we didn’t want to miss a house. I remember running with my bag of candy… running with purpose and excitement. I was worried about my safety pins and my mask. The slits in my mask were flopping over my eyes... I could hear my hot breath echoing in my mask.

We would check to compare how much candy we were hauling in. Everyone wanted to have more than the next. Someone would tell us of a house that was giving out whole candy apples or popcorn balls and we would scatter in that direction. The streets were always full of children and adults walking their children. It felt like a carnival. We were old enough to go on our own and we loved it. It was after dark and we were like young scavengers. I remember the freedom… I remember the rewards… I remember the happiness and the joy of it all. I remember the love and the thrill… all on one cool night in October.

Shannon R Killman

Season’s Sound

I sat outside this afternoon, in the quiet of the day... to listen and to watch. The cat was patiently perched next to me at my feet. The wind blew in light breaths around us. Luke, ever alert, watched the free-dance of the paper thin leaves of the birch trees I planted a dozen years ago as they tumbled to the ground… his ears scrolling in every direction to catch the sounds within his fiefdom. Our female cat Toonces lay in sleeping silence under the lazy branches of an azalea bush.

The crispy chatter of the leaves caught my attention as they pinballed through the wiry branches high above. They made their way to the ground with no conscious… no hurry or effort. The colors are the colors of early fall. I search for the reds of my memory, but the falling birch leaves are like peacocks of yellow and brown… the reds elude them. They vary from yellow to gold and brown… the brown of the earth and the brown of young chocolate.

The wind is happier in the fall. It moves with purpose. It collects the energy from the earth and fills the empty spaces between branches. Our lacy leaves become nature’s music. The squirrels trot behind us with mouthfuls of dried leaves. They scurry in bursts to their nest-making high in the treetops, squawking as they go.

Small birds bathe in the loose leaves like in the first rain puddles of the early spring. They bounce in groups of two or three… always alert to the heart racing sounds of intruders. It is easier to hear a far away dog barking into the wind. It is easier to breathe the air that holds onto the light moisture of an earlier sprinkle. The smothering heat of summer is merely a memory.

I can hear the patterned drumming of a driveway basketball… the chiming of a child’s bicycle bell, saddened by the approach of colder weather. The chirping of little birds has been replaced by the mocking calls of grazing blackbirds. I strain to hear the absent sound of the dove that nested in the Leland Cypress. They greeted me daily through the summer months… they have moved on.

We must all move on… a new season… a new journey in time. It will pass without me if I don’t take the time to watch and to notice. It will pass if I don’t take the time to notice the small things… the hidden things… the quiet things… the sights and sounds of a new season.

                                                 Shannon R Killman

Be Calm

-I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm.-

A spark… a movement… a warmth… I feel but don’t know what I feel… a love... a flow. I am not alone. A spirit is within me… comforting me. I feel small. I feel incomplete… I feel the energy of exuberance… I feel alive… I feel alive… I am alive…

You sing to me… I can hear your soothing heartbeat… it surrounds me and is part of me. I feel the vibrations of your movement, I am calm. I’m not afraid, because you are with me… a part of me. I can move more freely now. I can see through the waters of life. I can feel your joy… sing to me mother.

I can feel your joy… but I can feel your pain. Why do you cry? Why do you not talk within your soul? I feel the need to stretch… to roll out my legs and arms. Yes, you are back with me. I can feel your smile and your touch. I feel calm and patient…

-I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm.-

The sounds of the outside fall onto my ears and my mind. I am curious… I am strong… I am eager… it is not time. I know it is not time, yet you cry. The sadness within you pulls at me. Sing to me mother… sing. I feel dark without your voice.

It is wrong… I am not ready… the pressure is uncomfortable… I cannot fight. Who is pushing? Why do you cry mother? Why do I fear? The sounds are wrong… you are tense… your heart races… please calm my fears… sing to me mother… please sing. The pain! I can’t escape! Where are you? I need your touch! Your heart is screaming! Touch me! Talk to me! Feel me! Sing to me mother! - The quiet comes… why? I am tired… I love you… Mother… I love you… please… sing...

-It is done my child… I am here… I was here before you… I will be here after… be calm my child… know that I will share my love with you… be calm. We shall sing together…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

Perhaps an Escape

Perhaps to the origin of my birth,

the deserts of my youth,

the mountains of my memories or

the valleys of my ancestors…

Perhaps to the streets of adolescence,

the landscapes of maturity,

the city of young love or

the rooms of loneliness…

Perhaps to the waters of adventure,

the oceans of discovery,

the sands of desire or

the ancient oaks of laughter...

Perhaps to the countryside of friendship,

the sidewalks of solitude,

the tracks of companionship or

the roads of freedom…

Perhaps right around the corner...

Perhaps on any beach, any time...

Perhaps today or tomorrow...

Perhaps, only in my dreams…

                   Shannon R Killman

the Hobbyist

I made an attempt, after reading some poetry the other night, to try and develop my writing to a more classic style. I did some research on-line. I read some of the classic poets' works and it built my curiosity.

There seems to be several layers and styles of writing including creative writing, freestyle, modern, and classical. There is therapeutic writing that the authorities try to encourage inmates and prisoners to involve themselves in. It seems that when you can capture deep emotions and put them to words… it works wonders for the tempered soul.

There were suggestions on how to develop a poem… how to take notes and how to edit the work. It seems that most poets and writers are tortured by the use of one or two lines or words. The best advice was to read the analyses and critiques of famous works and try to develop your personal work off of the perfection of others’.

There are a lot of rules to poetry. There are stanza rules, rhyming rules, timing rules, line rules, verb usage rules and repetitive usage rules. There was quite a bit of encouragement for the new writers. Among the suggestions were to keep a notebook and jot down feelings and emotions that can be used in a poem. Start the poem and them put it down for another visit on another day. Change a few lines and words and then put it down again for future consideration. It will eventually come to an end after much editing and re-editing.

It is apparent that most poets and writers are poor but philosophical… educated but determined. I will never be an educated poet which is perfectly alright with me. I have been given permission to be a casual thinker, a freestyle writer and a therapeutic writer. I am apparently a “writing hobbyist”.

I will continue to scribble down my thoughts. I will continue to attempt to write down my observations and emotions. I do it for myself to clear my soul and conscious. I only save them in a social forum to preserve them. I want my thoughts to be preserved for my children and their offspring… self-centered, but honest.  Ahh... that was very therapeutic…

                                                                   
                                                                          Shannon R Killman

In my Dreams

Why do you elude me in my dreams?

I see you there… with no surprise.

I look for you in night’s slumber.

In my mind, somewhere in the mist.

You walk in whispers…

Drift like a dancer in her prime.

Your eyes call to me…

I answer with my very breath… you smile.

Anticipation fills my chest…

I have little time… memory's touch...

The perfume of youth…

The salt of your desire.

And again, you escape my grasp…

Flirting with my love. 

You drift into the shadows…

Waiting still...

                                Shannon R Killman

At Once…

I saw a rainbow…

I tried to ignore its call…

It drew my eyes…

A running mirage…

I chased it through the streets…

The blues and reds compelled me...

I knew I could not catch its flight…

It smiled with violet eyes…

Rain stung my windshield…

Dancing in panicked swirls…

Laughing at my plight…

Chasing… but near…

Flashes of sun strobe my eyes…

Trees shield breath of yellow…

Hiding in the rays…

Dodging the prism drops…

At once, I was inside… full within…

My lungs inhale orange light…

Time stops and sound wanes a song …

My spirit floats in pools of green …

I stretched my arm into the winds…

Indigo water chirped my skin…

Wind driven… and accepting…

My hand a windmill of color…

I passed from its cocoon…

I feel my heart… now aware of time…

I turn to see its path behind …

Life’s gold within me still…

                             Shannon R Killman

Judgment Day

I traveled to a small town this morning to meet a client. I had to go to his workplace which was in a Family Court courthouse. I arrived just before nine in the morning… just before the activity of the day had begun. I walked passed a group of men… they were huddled together like teenagers. They were smoking nervously… chatting quietly. You could smell the thick residue in the air of spent smoke and cigarette filters.

I was patient as I was ushered through security. The metal detector seemed out of place. It was the only visible item of a modern era. There were police officers gathered by a small detention room. I peered through the glassed opening to see a woman sitting on a wooden bench. She looked dazed… her hair was unwashed and her orange jumpsuit was wrinkled and baggy. She sat chewing on her fingers… unaware or unconcerned that someone may be watching.

As I waited, I looked around. There were no smiles… there was no calm. There was a random energy that floated above the floor. The room was filled with ill-fitting clothing and denim. The women held their handbags close. The waiting area was filling up, so I claimed a seat next to a woman. She seemed uncomfortable and shifted her weight away from me.

There was group of attorneys collecting at another doorway… they were the only individuals that seemed to have a purpose. They were overdressed in this arena and I felt offended by their, perhaps unintentional arrogance. The judge walked through the room as if he was in a play. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone but I could tell that he knew all eyes were on him. His hair had been colored an unnatural brown. His shoes were glossy black and I wondered why there were no signs of wrinkles on his flowing robe. He barked at a bailiff as he passed through his doorway into the court.

I searched for anyone at rest… anyone at ease. I felt myself pulling the energy from the room and I shifted my legs. All eyes were down… there was worry pulling at the walls. A young lady quietly sobbed as her elderly mother held her head. Men shifted at paperwork… quietly rearranging their order. I found one person uninfected by this weight… a small infant that jabbed at plastic keys that hung from her mother’s tired fingers.

I left heavy-hearted. I pulled the outside air deep within my lungs and made my way back through the small town streets… pondering the welfare of so many unknown faces…

                                                                                            Shannon R Killman

I am Here...

I look for you when I need your touch…

I look for you when the world pulls to my spirit…

I look for you when I am lonely… and when it is quiet…

I look for you when I ache within… and when my heart is heavy…

I hear you in the breeze… and in the sunshine…

I hear you in the cool of the midnight sky…

I hear you in the dusk and in the dawn…

I hear you in the breath of my children… and in the calm…

I question when I fail… and when I’m weak…

I question when I need you most…

I will call to you… I will search for you…

I will be patient… I will listen …

I am here…

                                      Shannon R Killman

Papa

James M Driggers 1932-2010

I took a reflective drive out of town this-afternoon… I had an hour or so to think within myself . Last night I pulled a treasured gift off of the shelf. It is a small wooden box made by the hands of a craftsman. It was made of heart pine from an ancient tree that once stood in the forests of South Carolina. Its grain is straight and the color is familiar and golden. Time alone has preserved the fibers… time alone can yield this treasure…

Jimmy Driggers put this dovetailed box in my hands many years ago. By that time, I had gone from addressing him as Mr. Driggers to Mr. Jimmy to Papa. I remember I was at his home and after calling him Mr. Jimmy… he turned to me with his slight smile and said as only a Southerner can say, “Son, you can call me Papa like the rest of my children do”.

My little box has a wonderfully long-lasting finish to it. The usual finish to a wooden piece would be stain and polyurethane. Papa would have none of that. He had a love for quality furniture… enough that he started making pieces of his own. He made them with a craftsman’s eye and a craftsman’s touch. He would choose the correct piece of wood to intersect with others so the grains would run together… the attention was always in the details. He finished his furniture with linseed oil. The aroma is distinctive and classic. He explained to me that you must put several thin layers on the wood. Too much at one time and the finish would not last…

I re-examined the dovetailing… I re-examined the hinges and the clasp. I took the time to look at the grain and the color and tone of the wood. I rubbed my hands over the top knowing that Papa had done the same.

Papa taught without teaching… he watched us without looking. He heard our signals without effort. He knew instinctively when we were up to no good. He had a special relationship with so many people that came into his life. He showed patience with me. He passed on a love for the beauty in nature's gifts.

The last time I saw Papa, he was weakened by time… he grasped my hand and pulled me to him… he had the handshake of a much younger man. He looked up to me with his grin and patted my face with purpose. I wish I would have known that would be my last visit with him. There is so much I could have said and so much I could have asked…

When I got home this-evening, I dusted off my can of linseed oil and dabbed a bit on the fold of a soft cloth. I gently applied a thin coat over the wood of my treasured box and inhaled the memory of so many years…

                                                            Shannon R Killman

I’m From... by Jackson Killman

I'm from staying up all night, and loving not having to get up on summer mornings...

I'm from the green swaying grass of the soccer fields, practicing, running, dribbling, passing, scoring...

I’m from annoyance and irritation, driving my sisters to tears…

I’m from Gamecock football every September, cheering for my team…

I’m from the ocean, the beach, digging in the damp sand, looking for shark's teeth…

I’m from writing stories and poems, learning from my dad as he does the same…

I’m from watching the rain with my dad on the porch, with raindrops splattering at our feet…

This is where I’m from…

                                                                                                      Jackson Killman

Another Trip Around the Sun

I woke up this morning to the hugs and kisses from my little ones. I got up early and had my coffee … It was my birthday… so many years and yet so few. I had a busy day planned. I love my college football and today was going to be a great day to watch the games all day.

I got in my old jeep and made my way to a friends house… His father had fallen in his home earlier in the week and was in the hospital. Mike asked me if I could help him widen the doorways in his father’s home so he could easily maneuver his wheelchair through the house. I got to Mike’s and he was waiting on me as he usually is. His truck was filled  with lumber and trim. We loaded up my tools and made our way out of town.

I checked my FaceBook page several times during the day… smiling from the well wishes from my friends and family. We worked through the day and into the evening… the football games passed us by… the radio was silent as the saws and nail guns sang their tunes.

We pried off old lumber that had held tight for over thirty years… we trimmed sheetrock and added feet and inches to the doorways. We drank diet coke and water and we smoked Marlboro Lights… We ate take-out burgers and homemade fries… crank up the saws…

We worked under the inspection of my friend’s mother who adored every improvement we made. How wonderful it would be to see her husband able to get through the house with ease. She smiled and laughed with us the entire day. Mike wanted nothing more than to do something for his mother and father… I am his friend and there was nothing I wanted to do more than to help him.

I got home in time to see the last part of my favorite college team’s game… we won. I drove in the driveway that my children had decorated with driveway chalk… it was beautiful. I got texts and calls from my children that weren’t home. I had a wonderfully baked cake and a nice surprise gift… all good things…

I would say that I had a great day today. I don’t know if I could have planned it any better…

                                                                        Shannon R Killman

Morning’s Journey

There was a cooling aroma in the morning air. I drove through the country this morning on a slow pace in order to memorize my surroundings. I could feel the change in temperature as I drove into the lazy dips in the road that nurtured islands of swampy ponds…

I pulled into an overgrown driveway that still held onto leggy rose bushes that seemed to plead for my admiration. I looked up at a tidal wave of kudzu vines that towered over ancient oak and pine trees. They stood sentry around an abandoned farmhouse that had finally given into the kudzu’s trespass.

I crept through the weeded reminisces of the overgrown yard into a cotton field. The rows of plants stood chest high for as far as the misty morning would allow me to see. There was wetness in the air… I could smell the soil under my feet. The morning dew hung on the leaves of the cotton plants. The white tufts of raw cotton clung tightly to their leathery hulls.

I felt the water that wicked through my shirt onto my skin. The breeze cooled the air around my neck as I watched a black butterfly gallop across the tops of the sea of green and white. My eyes caught sudden movement from beside my head… a dull yellow maple leaf kissed my cheek on its targeted passage to the ground.

I caught it on my shoulder and held it between my fingers to use it to shield my hands from the wet plants on the way back to the Jeep. I pulled away onto the road and laid the leaf on the seat next to me. It nervously rocked from side to side as my speed increased.

… it took flight… I stabbed at the air trying to capture it once again. The leaf flew from window to window flapping with the sound of a dove’s wings. Finally in a burst of energy… it escaped into the winds.

I reflexively slowed to a stop as I watched it settle to the black pavement…  I stretched to exit my seat as a helpful gust of wind lifted it back into the air and into the teasing roadside grass.  I smiled a smile as I drove away on my morning’s journey…

                                                                    Shannon R Killman