I Resolve

I resolve to take a nap this year…

I resolve to quit eating pickled jalapeños this year…

I resolve to finish the unfinished projects this year…

I resolve to not carry a plastic bag while walking the dog this year…

I resolve to eat less mini Heath Bars this year…

I resolve to get the Harley on the road this year…

I resolve to not speak baby talk to the pets this year…

I resolve to inhale and exhale all of this year…

I resolve to smile even when not smiled upon this year…

I resolve to invent a time machine this year…

I resolve to listen more this year…

I resolve to love even when not loved this year…

I resolve to save the planet this year…

I resolve to increase my vocabulary this year…

I resolve to enjoy my coffee in the mornings this year…

I resolve to see the unseen this year…

I resolve to hear the unheard this year…

I resolve to not bark at the vacuum this year…

I resolve to travel the roads not traveled this year…

I resolve to not make the mistakes of the past this year…

I resolve to keep what needs to be kept this year…

I resolve to remove what is not needed this year…

I resolve to befriend this year…

I resolve to seek and find this year…

I resolve to hug the hugs of life this year…

I resolve to sing out loud this year…

I resolve to dance in the dark this year…

I resolve to encourage this year…

I resolve to say I love you… always

                                      Shannon R Killman

the Aroma of Pine

I have a special Christmas tree stand I purchased years ago at a tree farm. It has a tapered spike that is mounted on three steel legs and is mounted within a plastic container that is designed to hold water for the tree. There is a rubber gasket that keeps the water from running out of the bottom. While at the tree farm, they will drill the hole in the bottom of your tree so it is easily mounted.

The main issue is if you don’t go back to the same tree farm the next or following Christmas seasons, any hole you drill in your own tree will not match up with the spike on the stand… and you have leaning problems… and unhappy decorators…

I inspect the gasket every year in the stand and make sure I spray WD-40 on it to make sure it doesn’t dry out… I make sure the plastic is secure and the stand is ready for a new tree. This year, I did the unthinkable… I found a tapered drill bit and had a machine shop modify it for its new lifelong purpose.

We search for the perfect tree… we won’t look at the lots that have been in town on street corners for too long… we don’t know how old the trees have been cut. Freshness is a necessity. The keeper of the tree will not have needles falling onto the floor.  

We pile into the truck after hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and look for perfection. It must be a fresh tree… not too short… not too fat. No bare spots or brown tips for our tree. Little hands gently tug on the soft branches, the method copied from their mother. If the needles pull off too easily, the tree is too old and dry.

After much discussion, and much more discussion, there is unanimous agreement on the most wonderful tree for our home. I can’t help myself… I find it necessary to try and negotiate for a discount... a practice usually frowned upon by the rest of the family. But, I can’t help it. And then we carefully load the tree… we take care to not break any branches and we take care not to scratch the truck.

I am reminded every year not to trim too much off the bottom of the tree… not to cut the lower branches because it will create bald spots that cannot be hidden with ornaments or lights… watchful eyes keep a close look out through the side windows to make sure I do my due diligence. The special hole is drilled and the stand is firm and stable… all is well.

The house has been rearranged… the usual corner of the den is clear and ready. The tables have been moved along with the lamps. There is an excitement in the air. The children always want to decorate right away… their mother usually doesn’t want to decorate right away… and I remind them that I want to water the tree over night and allow the branches to fall into place after the journey home.

I put down a plastic mat under the tree in the corner… we turn her to find the perfect angle… we adjust the position to the right or to the left, perhaps a little closer to the wall on one side or the other and then she is there to rest.

It’s hard to water her after the wrapped presents slowly present themselves in a semicircle under our most perfect tree, so I found a perfect watering can one year that has a long spout on it. I can gently tilt the can to the side without spilling water on the floor or on the brightly colored packages. I am reminded almost daily that the tree must have water so the needles won’t fall off onto the floor…

We find ourselves near the tree at night… the white lights reflect off of the shiny green pine needles and off of the ornaments we have collected over the years. The lights stay on all day and are only turned off while we sleep or when no one is home. When you walk into the den, you can smell the aroma of the season… the aroma that pulls you back to Grandmother’s house… the times of footy pajamas and innocence.

And before you know it… it is over. Our perfect tree looks lonely with no presents under her. There is a hollow surrounding her and the warmth she once gave to us seems to have vanished. The lights come down… the beautiful bow finds her resting place for the year and all of the ornaments are packed in their boxes. And there she sits…

Watchful eyes follow me through the den… looking for falling needles and dripping water. Out she goes through the side door and into the back yard… the sap from the inner branches clings to my hand and onto my fingers. I remove the stand from the bottom of her trunk and once again inspect the gasket… and with a quick spray of lubricant, it will be ready for next year.

I drove through our neighborhood today to see bags of wrapping paper and gift boxes piled high close to weekend trash and recyclables… the occasional bow or ribbon was spilled onto the grass or into the street… blowing in the morning breeze. And there were trees… they were tossed near the trash… they lay on their sides pointing in different directions… in the quiet… watching the cars drive by and dropping their needles.

I rubbed the residue of tree sap under my thumb and inhaled the aroma of pine…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

It’s Just a Door

It’s funny how we attach ourselves

The things we see every day

The normal… the regular objects

Like our door… the side door… the door for family

The casual traveler will not see her scars

The scratches from family cats…

Wanting in or wanting out

After all, it’s just a door

There are patched holes in her frame

Putty and caulk are her jewelry

Paint with layers of stories and tales

She keeps us safe and warm and dry

The locks have changed

The knobs and keys have changed

The old hinges and screws have changed…

After all, it’s just a door

The children have left her open

We have locked her by mistake

She has withstood the slamming

And we know the click of the gentle shut

Rust has crept into her edges

The strain of time is all around her

And yet she still finds her purpose

After all, it’s just a door

Today she will leave us and look upon the new

She has shadowed visitors that we have lost to time

She will be forgotten… perhaps

After all, she’s just a door

                                                             Shannon R Killman

Behind the Obvious

There are many things to be thankful for on this day... for the things we are blessed to have… the things in some instances, we may not notice from day to day. I am thankful for the country that chose me. I am thankful for the family that chose me… and for the personality that chose me. I am thankful for my friends that choose to allow me into their lives.

But there are things I took notice of this week while I looked at my life…

I am thankful for the family dog that sits at my feet…

I am thankful for the family cat that lets me know when it’s OK to pet her…

I am thankful for the oil stain in my driveway…

I am thankful for the ignition switch that needs no key…

I am thankful for black lights…

I am thankful for boxer underwear…

I am thankful for WD40 and twine…

I am thankful for people who carry an extra pen…

I am thankful for mini heath bars…

I am thankful for garlic and onion salt…

I am thankful for the third pull on my old lawnmower…

I am thankful for fingernail clippers and tweezers…

I am thankful for the fifth gear in my Jeep…

I am thankful for dime store eye glasses…

I am thankful for Zippo lighter fluid and flints…

I am thankful for blue packets of sweetener…

I am thankful for my father-in-law's giant stainless steel mixing bowl...

I am thankful for the small town farmer who sells his crops on the roadside…

I am thankful for one more year to seek out my thoughts…

I will always be thankful for the smiles from my children… the hand shakes from people I meet… the laughter in a family home. I will always be thankful for the waves of hello from my neighbors… the voices of my loved ones and the feelings of love and appreciation.

                                               

                                                          Shannon R Killman

It will Stay

My friend watched through the window as a large white van backed into his driveway. He knew today was coming… but it was such a beautiful Fall day today. The cool in the air pierced the windows and the sun fell crisp and focused upon the floors.

A very polite and green uniformed man came to the front door and knocked quietly as not to disturb… my friend looked at me and smiled. There were papers to sign and yellow and green copies that were gently laid on the coffee table… they sat like anchors as the polite man quietly made his way to the van and opened the double doors.

He had been trying to sleep in his favorite recliner… the move back and forth from the back room had become taxing… and exhausting. He knew it was time…

The polite man came into the front room with a small tool bag… it looked worn and well used. The vinyl zipper moved with ease and made a familiar sound. It was quiet except for the clink of the small wrenches as they moved upon each other. He was gone and back again… with a shiny bed frame. The side rails were next… and the wheels. And new cardboard box of electronics.

He assembled the bed without making eye contact… he was quiet and efficient. Next came the mattress… he refused any assistance as he made his way up the front steps. Perspiration pierced the pores of his freshly shaven face.

My friend told the polite man to set the bed up in the front room… opposite the television and too near the recliner. There was a calm in the air as the polite man gave a quick explanation on the workings of the hospital bed… the movement of the side rails and the operation of the incline. He asked where he could move the recliner… shall it be moved into the other room… would the bedroom be better?

My friend struggled with the thought… he looked to his chair. He knew this time would come, but he wasn't ready. He looked to me in the silence and I knew there was no hurry… the sun still fell on the floors and the air still felt cool and crisp… the sounds of the outside drifted in through the open front door…

He looked upon his chair and the words fell softly from his lips… there is no hurry… it will stay. The polite man was gone as quietly as he came. And time fell upon the silence…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman  

One Moment

The television was on… a bit too loud. And I was on the computer, looking up and back as I searched for one thing or another. Kate had placed dinner on the table and called our three youngest children. They came from all directions… arms waving, singing and stiff kneed walking as Jackson sometimes does.

I looked over as they sorted out their seating arrangements… it’s never quite the same. One will sit on one end and then another time will sit on one side or another. I wondered the why of it.

I didn’t look back to the computer or the TV… the light from the chandelier threw shadows on their faces as they talked… it was more like chatter… a chatter behind smiles and laughter.

My youngest, Darby sits attentively… watching over the table. She polices the honey mustard… and the ketchup… making sure everyone has what they need. She organizes the plates under the unaware glances of her brother and sister. I watch as she fills three colorful cups with equal amounts of cold milk… scanning busy hands as she goes. She smiled as she felt the laughter of her siblings in song… her wavy hair was bunched in damp strands, fresh from the bathtub.

Katelin is always on the move… her hair flows strait upon her shoulders and back. It is shiny and full. She twists a small tuft behind her ear and pulls it to the end. And then she repeats the pattern. Her arms move under the air of a song. She sings and speaks the lyrics of one song after another as if speaking in a foreign tongue.

Jackson grins the smile of hidden secrets… of plans. He follows his sister’s lead in song and lips the words as a parent would mouth the words that come from a child in a school play. His curly hair falls to his forehead… kissing his tender skin. He takes small bites of finger food, freshly dipped in honey mustard. Each nibble is inspected, and then back to the sauce. He curls his legs sideways under him and sits on his feet.

I watched… and I took their pictures in my mind. I didn’t hear the sounds of the room around me… I only heard their laughter. I felt the energy... all is good in this place and in this one moment…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

I Traced his Steps

It was an early fall morning in the valley where my grandmother and grandfather made their home in Camp Verde Arizona. This time of year was cool in the evening and cooler in the mornings. During the summer, we would find ourselves collecting with each other in the shade under the willow trees in their front yard. Sometimes we would walk with our grandfather down to the Verde River… it ran behind his property… you could smell the sweet aroma of the cool waters that carved through the round river rocks we would use to build beaver dams in the shallows…

I walked along the side of the road that led to my grandparent’s house. It was paved with black oil. It once was a gravel lane that we would roam on, from one side to the other… looking for giant ant beds. We would push sticks into the entrance holes and watch the big red ants fight them like mortal enemies. If we could catch a beetle, we would add that into the fray… the road seemed much shorter on that morning.

I came to the gate that led to their home… it felt strange looking over the fence… I once would have un-latched the gate and ran into the house… but there were new owners… strangers. The house of my memory had a unique aroma. It was a mixture of the sweet perfumes of my grandmother’s dressing room… it was the aroma of the coffee pot that was filled, pot after pot…  it was the aroma of left over breakfasts of sausage and bacon, fresh hen’s eggs collected that morning and home made biscuits. They circulated through the house via the evaporator cooler that blew cool, humid air down the hallway…

I could only look over the fence… the fence my grandfather built with his hand saw and driven nails. It kept the sheep from escape when they found their way from the adjoining fields… it kept the family spaniel from running into the neighbor’s field that held his prized bull… the bull that didn’t appreciate the curious nature of a family pet. It kept in the grandchildren that wondered in the soft grass of the yard... it kept in his family and the love of the land. I walked down the fence line and traced his steps… I looked for signs of his saw and I touched the nails that had worked their way out of the timbers after so many decades. The peeling paint called his name for attention… and I stood dreaming of the days of my past…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

I Dream in Black and White

I could see the towering white barked tree tops moving in a whispering breeze above me… I was sitting in the grass with its thin blades that found their way between my toes.  The white washed fence posts looked new and clean…. They held on to shiny wire that was tied in sections that looked like the rows in my grandfather’s garden. The weeping willow danced in the wind… it moved like a waterfall in the mountains. My eyes were attracted to a single red rose that called to the break in the clouds… it stood tall and full... it was my Grandmother’s pride and joy. I could hear the voices of my mother and family as a spotted spaniel stood close-watch over any movement of my hands…

I could see my cat… she found the dappled shade beside the flower bed in my back yard… I could feel the comfort of my home. I felt the energy of youth within me. The deep shadow of the covered porch held the soft country music of years gone by. My eyes were attracted to a shiny red bicycle…. it stood tall and proud before me. I wanted to go… I wanted to be free and to roam in my world. It looked fast and it called to me to ride. The sun threw sparks of lightning off of the chrome fenders and the smooth handle bars… I could hear the sounds of my family in the kitchen… they were the sounds of activity and the sounds of laughter.

I saw flashes of light that reminded me of an old projector movie reel winding and clicking before my eyes. My dream must have been from the photographs I have looked at through the years. I remember pointed party hats with thin elastic strings stapled to the sides. There were familiar faces that held the smiles inside of laughter. I saw flashes of presents and candles… cakes that stood tall swirled with homemade icing and sheet cakes as big as a platter filled with miniature figurines and puffs of piped icing trim. I remember clutching my hands together to make the perfect wish and smiling for flashing cameras before blowing out the little waxed candles that stood like soldiers at attention. My eyes were attracted to a small red blindfold that held the secrets to a game of pin the tail on the donkey… I saw birthday parties that led me toward my todays… the todays that remind me of the yesterdays in my dreams…

                                                                 Shannon R Killman

A quiet hour

I was doing what I do… in the quiet.

I run from noise while I work.

My mind takes me into its ups and downs.

And I talk with my memories…

I hear the sounds of my day…

Mortar under my trowel,

The hum of my tile saw,

The twirl of the mixing paddle…

My friend came to me in the quiet,

His smile was purposeful, as it was…

He left us too soon.

I never thought he would…

We would laugh through our words…

Tears of joy were always near.

I knew his patterned knock at the door,

He was always welcomed… like family.

We often talked about the ways of life…

We never spoke of death.

Perhaps I missed a clue,

Perhaps I should have said the words.

I only know I cannot call,

I cannot anticipate a spontaneous visit.

I paused in my day to reflect,

My tools become silent.

Silent as my smile,

To remember my friend

And to hear his words,

In the quiet of my hour.

                   Shannon R Killman

Firsts and Lasts

I have my first Teddy Bear… it sits quietly on the bed, day after day in the arms of my last Teddy Bear, a gift from my sister-in-law from ten or so years ago. I don’t remember playing with my first little bear, but the evidence falls all around it. The little eyes aren’t as shiny as the day my father placed it into my crib… the arms have repair stitching that have held the cotton stuffing in place and the once soft fur is flat and matted. All in all, I’d say he’s doing pretty well for close to fifty years old.

My last Teddy Bear watches over the older one… most grown men probably don’t admit to the attraction of sentimental treasures like mine, but I for one, am pleased that the two are there for each other when the house is quiet. The kids have added to my collection. The two bears now have pets… two small kittens fall asleep and keep each other company under the watchful eyes of their sentinels.

I was probably about the age of my youngest daughter when I had my very first crush. She was a beautiful blonde girl in my class in elementary school. Her eyes were blue and clear and she wore her hair in pony tails. I don’t know why, but I felt as though I had to chase her around the school yard. I don’t remember ever catching her, although I’m sure I could have… what exactly would I have done if I would have caught her? I used to draw, in crayon, pictures for her and have someone deliver them to her in class. There is only one first crush and it is always the last, first crush.

My grandmother was in her last days… in the eve of her life, and I went to her side. I needed to see her… to touch her hands and to remember her as the younger woman that would lead me into her garden and help me find the perfect, red, ripe strawberry to eat. Summer was her season. It was the season that we got to spend with our Grandparents… I grew from the inside in those years and filled my heart and soul with the experiences with my elders.

I held her frail and thin hand as I watched her drift in and out of sleep that day. I always thought I had complete control over my emotions, but I was wrong. That was the day I truly understood my own mortality. My first experience with the reality of death… and the gifts of life… it was the last time I cried with a broken heart.

There are many firsts in my life… the lasts will follow…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

The Five

I want you to see the things I see. Can you see behind the eyes... behind the confused look of a stranger… inside of the soul of a sleeping child… can you see the faint reflection in the glass that separates the outside from the in… can you see the hidden beauty in the frost or in the rain… can you see the wind as it drags the hopes and dreams of a new season… can you see the future in the light of youth… the youth that will do the things that we leave undone?

I want you to hear the things I hear. Can you hear the purr of an infant as it is consumed within the warmth of its mother’s arms… can you hear the sound of the train that falls through the morning mist of your dreams… can you hear the warmth of the giggles of the children while they play in the quiet… can you hear the leaves of the fall season as they pinball in slow motion to the ground… can you hear the soft call of the dove… the call that has imprinted itself in your memory?

I want you to feel the things I feel. Can you feel my touch in the dark… the touch of comfort or a touch when a moment in time pulls us together… can you feel the glow of a winter fire… it pulls within it, the aromas of winter… can you feel the pride that surrounds me as I watch you succeed in your goals… can you feel a look across a crowded room… can you feel the emotions of a stranger… a stranger that is unaware of your intuition?

I want you to taste the things I taste. Can you taste the warm coffee that fills the house with the aromas of my mornings… the aromas of tall chairs against a farmhouse table filled with the breakfasts of my grandmother… can you taste the salt of my skin… the taste of the labor of my brow, and of the tears of sadness?

I want you to smell the things I smell. Can you smell the sweet grass in the cool nights of spring… can you smell the deep, rich soil that I look for in city streets… the streets that release steam after a summer rain shower… can you smell the joy in the air after the crisp splashes of water from a child’s pool… can you smell the jasmine that gives away its hiding place with every puff of fragrant air?

These are the things of our daily lives… the things worth pausing for… the things we take for granted. These are the details that surround me…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

the Details of our Past

You… You were able to fall asleep under the oak tree in the shade of your youth… in the cool years of contentment. And you… You kissed the cheek of your grandmother as she smiled into your heart… you felt the soft skin of her hand and knew you came from her very soul. And you… You felt the freedom of the wind and the innocence of play… the neighborhood was your world and you knew the comfort and the allure of your home.

And you… You fell in love… a love that takes your heart to a place of secrets… a place that no one else can understand… a place you can go to, to calm your mind. And you… You picked the smallest of flowers and forced the details into your mind… the details that help you to recall the times that time stands still. And you… You took the time to truly know the heart of a friend. You replay the eyes and the laugh into memory. You can feel the anxiety of separation…

And you… You studied your soul to make it right with your God. You took the time to forgive and to understand… and to listen. And you… You counted the years as they flowed like sands through a child’s fingers. They push us like the wind behind the swollen clouds. And you… You made a home… a home that is your refuge… a home that shelters the offspring that will continue in our path… the offspring that will do the things we leave undone…

I saw it in your eyes… I saw it in your smiles. I could feel the power of the sincerity and I could sense the walls that may protect you. I could feel your past as you spoke… and the details of our past found their way into my mind’s eye. I took your memories and wove them into my past… a past that I have as my treasure box. You are the friends that make me, the me that I am.

         

                                                            Shannon R Killman

and then we danced...

We wrote the lines of color… the lines of swirls and of magic. We wrote the yellows of the sun and the greens of the grass and white clouds and flowers. We wrote inside of the lines with reds and blues… with brown tree limbs and ripe apples. We wrote the lines of holding hands near a house with crooked windows and purple curtains. We wrote the lines that form a name and the lines that shape a heart… full and trusting. We wrote the lines of I love you… and I miss you… the lines of secret notes and wishes. We wrote the lines of keepsakes and memories…

We searched the search of hidden treasures… the search for the silken threads that hide beneath the branches in the shade… the search for the web that moves under our breath and in the breeze. We searched for the answers for why and the answers for what if. We searched within the cool grass that was our stage to the heavens… the heavens that held the mysteries of the stars and of the glow of the moon. We search for the lights that held onto the sky and were awed by its size. We searched the search for God and for truth…

And then we danced. We danced the dance of closed eyes in the edge of night... the dance of the music surrounding us like the wind. We danced alone with the songs of the season. We danced the dance of freedom… it found us moving in rhythm as I held you to my chest and felt your pulse. We danced the dance that held time in a bubble… the dance of your head tucked beneath my chin... the dance of comfort and confidence… the dance of warmth and of father and child. We danced the dance of a day in my memory...

                                               

                                                Shannon R Killman

Before I Grew

Innocence…

Summertime…

Rain puddles…

Cut off jeans…

Secret forts…

Soft skin…

Mother cuddles…

Back rubs…

Car riding…

Tag…

Saturday cartoons…

Sleepovers…

Tadpole hunting …

Kites in the wind…

Bicycles of freedom…

Bubble gum…

Movie Theater curtains…

Discoveries…

Halloween…

Christmas dreams…

Grandmother kisses…

Black and white…

Treasure maps…

Pocket combs…

Step stools…

Jacks and marbles…

Easter baskets…

A bed too large…

Bare feet…

All things made at home…

                                      Shannon R Killman

the Heat

The heat came today

It was early... I felt it on my face

It was heavy on my tongue

My lungs remembered coffee steam

I drove the streets… black and bright

The sun was new… I felt its intention

My neck held my shirt

It pushed against my eyes

Sweat filled my pores

The shade called

And the night

My mind was on the autumn

                                     Shannon R Killman

A Wish Today

I wish I could have had more time with him...

I wish I could have asked him the questions of life...

I wish I could have watched him shave...

I wish I could have gone to him in my time of need...

I wish I could have held his secrets...

I wish I could have shared his dreams...

I wish I could have grown into his cloths...

I wish I could have watched him in the quiet...

I wish I could have heard his voice in a crowd...

I wish I could have known his thoughts...

I wish I could have watched him sleep...

I wish I could have felt his embrace...

I wish I could have made him smile...

I wish I could have heard his instruction...

I wish I could have made him proud...

I wish I could have smelled his cologne...

I wish I could have known his mood...

I wish I could have seen him cry...

I wish I could have walked in his footprints...

I wish I could have studied his hands...

I wish I could have been his hero and he be mine...
I wish I could have changed the hands of fate…

                  

                             Shannon R Killman

You May Be

You may be the man, pacing nervously in a crowded waiting room… thinking of the changes that will soon come to your world…You may be the man, who unsure of himself, changes an infant’s diaper for the first time…You may be the man who will cry with pride at the achievements of your babies… no matter what their age…You may be the man, who watches through the mirror, your waving child as you drive off to work…

You may be the man who playfully snaps and rubs the aged leather of a childhood baseball glove and plays catch with your son…You may be the man who sits patiently while being served imaginary tea in the smallest of tea cups… polite and on your best behavior…You may be the man who snuggles in a favorite chair with your child and sounds out the words of a favorite book… You may be the man who leads and guides your unsure and nervous child through the beginnings of riding their first bike…

You may be the man who sets the boundaries for manners and for the rules of good and bad behavior…You may be the man who walks his child through the awkward stages of adolescence… with patience and kindness…You may be the man who cries with his child when they hurt… smile when they are happy and remain silent when necessary…You may be the man who is there with advice… with a tear… with a sympathetic ear or with a confident embrace…

You are the man with love to spare…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

                                                                  

Your Hand in Mine

In the sunrise of my life, you held my hand when all that was in me was reflex… the touch of your skin held the life within me…

You held my hand as I struggled to take my first steps… my legs were weak but your smile led me into the world…

You held my hand when the ways of the world were new and frightening to me… your eyes calmed my soul…

You held my hand to comfort me before I knew I needed your strength… the calm in your voice cleansed my spirit…

You held my hand in the pain of my life… the pulse of your heart echoed your resolve…

You held my hand in the joys of my life… your energy filled the room with love and happiness…

Now, as the sun sets, I will hold your hand. I will hold your hand for strength… I will hold your hand through your fears… I will hold your hand through your pain… We will share the joys of our life together… your hand in mine…

                                                Shannon R Killman

the Racetrack

A good friend of mine works the NASCAR circuit in security. Robert asked me if I would like to come to the race in Charlotte, North Carolina and work with him for a few days. His company was a man short and although I don’t know anything about the sport of racing, I thought it would be an interesting experience… it was…

I pulled onto the main thoroughfare which led to the Charlotte Motor Speedway and was assaulted by the sight. It felt like the Super Bowl. There were signs with tickets for sale… there were tents with t-shirts and hats blowing in the breeze. Hanging banners of different colors seemed to sew together the tents and tables set up on the sides of the road… the music from dozens of speakers and stereos along with the bombardment of the sites put my senses on high alert.

In the distance I could see the racetrack… the complex was much larger than I expected. Before I entered the main gate I passed the entrances to a dirt track and a drag strip. The traffic was heavy and everywhere you looked, there were cars parked in parking lot fields, campers set up with people moving around them and people moving in and out of the streets like ants… it was a NASCAR carnival… and the first race was three days away.

There were RVs of every color and size… some with beautiful automatic awnings and some with blue tarps tied on the sides for shelter from the sun. I could make out the words on the shirts and hats on the sea of fans moving through the acres of staked claims of personal territories… clean white shirts with brilliant blues and reds with the numbers of drivers… slanted number 3s and 88s. There were names of drivers that I had heard of and most that I had not... but, each race fan wore them proudly.

I met up with Robert… I learned for the first time that he was known here as Young Bob. He led me to the place I would be watching for the next few days. It was very near one of the main gates into the track. As we drove toward my tent, a very large carnival type tent, we passed familiar names posted on other displays. Some displays were similar to the carnival attraction buildings… their metal structures pinned together under awnings that read Verizon and Ford or Toyota… there was Bank of America and Nationwide. They were all there…

Every beer and liquor company, along with tobacco companies had a stake on space near the track. The hum of carnival sounds filled the air… sounds of generators and loud speakers… the aroma of fried foods and the sight and sounds of scores of golf carts moving in all directions…

When the race is on… the sponsor tents and the concessions shut down. The young girls with their tans that hand out trinkets and advertising give-aways melt into the crowds… and that is where our work begins. My job was to make sure that my area was protected from wondering fans who may want to take a souvenir or touch the Jeff Gordon race car I was entrusted with.

The nights were long and I quickly remembered the Jeep was not designed for long road trips… and especially not designed for comfort. Let’s just say I was very happy to get home and into a hot shower after so many nights and hours in the open night air. It was just as Robert told me it would be… like camping, but camping inside of the carnival… where nature was the people around me.

There are people who travel around the country and feed off of the races… they are the traveling construction workers who set up all of the exhibits… some are very elaborate. They move in and out of tractor trailers with displays, golf carts, tents, generators and equipment.

There are detailers who have one purpose… to keep the vehicles, the campers, the tractor trailers and the equipment looking like new. We gathered in small groups and I listened to their stories of Talladega and Vegas… of Darlington and other cities and tracks spread out over the country. They talked with accents from the west and from the north… and from the southeast… they talked behind cigarette smoke and unshaven faces.

There are food vendors with first names like Skinny and Pete who haul their hot dog and funnel cake trailers behind worn out pickups… or behind shiny new four wheel drives. They can pack up in a matter of minutes and be ready to drive the eight hundred miles to the next race.

There are the souvenir trailers that shine in the sun with chromed wheels and race car driver’s photographs on the sides of them… selling die cast replicas and hats and t-shirts. They sell coolers shaped like race cars… the sell key chains and sun glasses… each one proudly displaying a name or a number of a race car. Each driver has its own semi truck display. They line up in the half mile stretch of road known as souvenir alley…

There is a man who drives from race to race, for seven months out of the year and cleans the chromed wheels of the semi trucks and trailers. He is a grumpy man… everyone knows him and his aging yellow lab. He drives an older custom van that has seen too many miles. It carries a small generator that is strapped to the back bumper which runs a small air conditioner that is cut into the back door. He cleans the rims all day and at night is paid to sleep beside the Tums display.

We all are congregators of the night… when it is quiet and calm. Pat works the Toyota display… Al watches over Nationwide while Young Bob is down at Verizon. Sherri is near her camper at the Army display. We listen for the straying fan… we watch the clean up crews march through the night streets around two AM. They surround us like lines of stalking cats and pick up trash in large black plastic bags.

Flashes of light come from within the racetrack and draw your attention… sound checks on make-shift stages throughout the area break the silence created by the heavy air. The sounds of footsteps alert the ears and the eyes… eyes that tire from lack of sleep.

It’s a world within… a traveling city that feeds off of itself. It’s a world that hides in the night and attracts its followers during the day… it comes to its fans like a storm… a storm of light and music… a storm of chrome and race cars. Behind the city… in the alleys and in the tents are the people who put it together and take it apart. Most of them are only seen at night… at night with the tired smiles of years and of miles…

                                                                                                Shannon R Killman

the Dim Light

I sat with an old friend today… in his home… in his resting place. He didn’t greet me at the door this time. He sat in his favorite chair… the leather held him from all around.

He was thinner than before. He smiled with purpose, but his eyes were tired. I felt his effort. His clothes seemed too heavy for the season as they folded themselves around his frame… but I understood.

I shook his hand and patted his leg to let him know that I was the same… the smiles and laughter I carry with me fell into the room with us. The television was on, but the volume was low… too low to hear, but too loud to ignore. So we glanced occasionally in silence together to see the shapes move across the screen… in the quiet and in the dim light.

I felt comfortable enough to ask him the questions of my heart. I wanted to know how he felt at this time in his life. How he wanted to spend his time and how the world saw him in his time. He did not shy from the answers. He said he was relieved to say the words… the words he did not know how to express without someone asking for them. So I listened… and he talked…

He misses his daughter… his daughter who is beautiful and fills the room with her energy... his daughter that wraps her arms around him and hugs him like she won’t let go. He wants to know her dreams. He wants to feel her emotions. He misses his sweet baby that grew up before he could catch his breath. He misses the quiet nights holding her hand in the mist of the summer… a summer by the ferris wheel she may not remember…

He knows the truths of his time… and he waits. He waits in good spirit and smiles the polite smiles to friends and family who tell him tales of the future that he knows he will not see… but he waits. I will wait in his time with him… beside his chair and in his home… in the dim light of his life...

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Library in my Mind

I went to the library in my mind today… to find a book to read, in a quiet place… in my time…

I found a familiar volume… its binding was strong. The fine leather was clean and polished. The gold foil embossing looked new and crisp.

I sat, at rest, and began to read… the story of you…

There were many chapters… I skipped ahead to a recent chapter and then flipped back to earlier times. The characters were full of color. I found adventure. I found drama. I found history.

There were twists and turns… there was sadness and there was joy… it read like an adventure. It read like a drama and it read like a comedy… each chapter led my mind through a lifetime of memories…

I came to the end… but the adventure was not over. The last pages were empty and clean. The story will evolve and the story will continue... 

I placed it on the shelf with my other books. I displayed it in front. I will return to it… I often return to it… to read from life’s memories and to feel the emotion of its pages…

                                                Shannon R Killman

on Prom Night

All of the plans had been made… the dresses had been shopped for, under the supervision of doting mothers, and the tuxes had been ordered. Every hairdresser in town had filled their schedules with appointments for the perfect hair style.

You could feel the stress in the air… and the anticipation. The florists had extra hands in the back of the shops, tying wrist bands with beautiful orchids and greenery. The aroma in the showroom was confusing to the senses… a mix of so many perfumed works of nature’s art. There were the last minute phone calls to the restaurants, confirming reservations. There were trips to the mall for just the right shoes and just the right jewelry.

All of the plans were complete and the night of the Senior Prom was here. I watched Cody inspecting his tux. He fingered through the little zip lock bag of metal buttons and cufflinks. We adjusted his one size fits all suspenders that tucked neatly under his handsome vest. I crowded behind him under the curiosity of the younger children… there was a rhythmic motion as little hands smoothed out creases and pulled at his dressy jacket. I folded and tucked at the back of his collar while he looked in the large mirror through all of the activity. He asked me if it was hot in the house and I smiled as I told him he was probably nervous.

All of the parents and the young graduates gathered at a beautiful lake home. The sun was dipping in the sky and our children wondered in small groups… nervous and on the edge of discomfort with all of the attention put upon them. They were indulgent of us… they let us smooth the wrinkles of their clothes… they let us touch and pat at their hair and adjust their ties… they allowed us to tell them where to stand and how to pose. We, the parents with our cameras, directed them like they were young beyond their years… and they happily moved and crowded together… they smiled and laughed as we led them through the beginning of their evening… I was amazed at their patience…

The young men tugged at their collars and complained quietly about their shoes while the young ladies adjusted tufts of hair and re-applied shimmering lipstick. They stacked themselves into the limo with last minute words of advice and reassurances from us… everyone had enough money… everyone was comfortable and everyone had their phones with them… and they drove away from us as we watched with our memories in the spring evening air.

The calendar tells me it has been thirty years since I was in their shoes… how can it be? We stood together… the parents… without our babies. I watched the silence in the faces of mothers and fathers… I felt their thoughts. We had been there just yesterday… a yesterday that I hope they too will feel in some distant spring day… on prom night.

                                                               Shannon R Killman