One More Year

One more year has left us in the quiet…

One more year has found us amongst friends…

One more year has brought our family closer…

One more year has helped with our resolve…

One more year has led us to find new love…

One more year has surrounded us with loss…

One more year has gifted a new generation…

One more year has ended with a rush…

One more year has taken us to new lands…

One more year has welcomed us back home…

One more year has chased us through the seasons…

One more year has reflected onto the next…

One more year has drawn us into healing…

One more year has failed us for a cure…

One more year has drifted into memory…

One more year has passed the sands of time…

                             Shannon R Killman

Winter Sky

The moon was bright in the sky tonight… not full and not half, but in that in between place that makes my eyes see it in three dimensions. I picture the sun on the other side of the earth throwing a shadow on its surface that looks like the back of the sky and space.

The wind was high in the sky tonight… I couldn’t feel it on my skin, but the sound was faint and quiet. It pulled the clouds for as far as I could see. The bare tree-tops scraped at their view as they sailed silently by.

The clouds held hands tonight… like cotton balls on a child’s art project. They looked round and full… the edges fading into dark blue like the sky that held them. They raced to the moon and passed before it… and then pulled behind them an army of others. 

                                                            Shannon R Killman

and that Seems Normal

 

My children walk through their lives with phones linked to their eyes and their ears. The new school is wired for sound and for electronics. Every class is a wireless hub for the Internet… it turns communication and research into a modern marvel… and that seems normal.

We sit at a family gathering and young and old alike are fixed to their phones, ipads and ipods. The flat-screened TV plays in high definition and we almost forget how detailed life can truly be. We communicate through the palms of our hands as the reflected light shines bright against our eyes… and that seems normal.

Our vehicles have been transformed into fast moving computers. They tell us where to drive and what speed to drive. They allow us to move about without landmarks thanks to the updated GPS. And they help us to drive safer with backup cameras and automatic braking systems and auto parking options… and that seems normal too.

We move at a faster pace. Upload speeds direct our moods during the day. We are subjects to cell towers and the correct settings on our phones… and to the power cords and chargers that spray across the counters and tables of our houses… and that seems normal now.

But today, on Thanksgiving, I see a change… a slower pace and a familiar feeling. Today I watch as the phones and the computers sit blinking and sit idle. The electronics watch us today as we flip through the pages of favorite recipe books that don’t require downloading. Their familiar covers comfort our time together in the kitchens of our lives. Ours is stuffed with clippings given to us by grandmothers and aunts… and sisters and mothers.

On this day, hand written directions take the place of online videos. Snapshots of our favorite time of year flow through the air with the aromas of sage and allspice… of pumpkin pie and cornbread dressing. The turkey stuffed with onions and garlic takes the place of video games and microwave snacks.

We take the time to be thankful for our family and our friends… for our health and for our country. And for the people that have touched our lives. We remain hopeful for our future generations and for the technological advancements that will make their lives easier and happier. But we should never forget the touch and the sounds of a home cooked meal and for the aroma of togetherness… that seems normal forever…

 Shannon R Killman

American Made

I eased through the neighborhood this morning…

the wind pulled on the plastic widows of the Jeep

finding its way onto my exposed neck.

The leaves raced each other across the street

bouncing across the surface of the concrete,

singing in chirps with every contact of the road.

In a bend in the road… filled with cars parked

were tables in a driveway, overflowing.

People moved about… unaware of each other.

I was drawn to the activity…

I pulled to the side, my Jeep still cold inside

and I prepared for the chill…

There were piles of children’s clothing in a mass.

Plastic cups and used china held one table.

Toys of a forgotten time stood in a tumbled coil.

A broken wagon, a worn out mower

and the people dispersed without speaking.

The owner sat-huddled in a kitchen chair,

a scarf over her head… scanning her customers.

I spoke to her eyes with mine… with a smile.

I said it was early and she said it was cold.

Her daughter came to her with a basket full to add,

representing bits of money spent in the past…

A hope of small change today from 7 until 1…

I saw a shine under a red shop rag…

A wrench… a big one… and my heart raced.

I don’t need it, but it was beautiful, sitting there,

A quality Crescent tool… American made.

I held it toward her with anticipation.

It was mine for a small price

and my lady a new friend.

My wrench held its spot in the front seat for now.

The metal cool from outside air but soon to be warm.

It will join the other tools soon enough

with a story of its beginning.

                                                Shannon R Killman

the Family Before Me

My son went with his friend to the old homestead of his friend's grandparents. His grandparents have both been away from us for several years and the estate is soon to be sold. It is now an overgrown pasture that holds the forgotten framework of the family’s past. The old wooden planked home was modest in size and structure… the camellia bushes that once anchored the corners of the house are now overgrown and push their way into the spaces of the eves and crowd the shingled roof.

The boys stepped over weeds and blackberry vines that held onto their boots and held onto their shirt sleeves. The sounds of the cicadas echoed all around them and the mosquitoes quietly fed upon their exposed necks and dodged the slaps and the sweat and the summer heat. The shed stood before them… The tin roof was mostly tinted in rust with only patches of exposed gray metal. Its plywood door leaned slightly open but was held in place by the overgrowth of the yard and a barrier of a massive red ant pile.

They pulled their way inside and paused while the light found its way into their eyes. This was a forgotten place… a place where things were left for later. After so many years the papers on the bench were dark and layered with dust from the outside summers… the colors were the same on the walls and on the floor. Piles of cut plywood and timber were huddled together like frightened prisoners. There were paper bags filled with dirty cloth and coffee cans tossed into a corner. Hand nailed shelves held lawnmower parts and broken plastic jugs that had given in to the cold and heat of the years. And there was a heavy smell of oil that found its way into their lungs.

They found a stack of large Avon boxes that still held their shape… the green lettering was bright against the beam of the flashlight. They opened the boxes and found canning jars by the dozens. The jars stood like soldiers, lined up between cardboard dividers… waiting patiently. They brought them home to me as a gift… one box upon another until all were safe.

I stood alone at the kitchen counter and opened the first dusty box. It was filled with quart glass jars that revealed their shine with the light through my window. I took the time to notice the details of how they were packed with care and with thought. They were all placed up side down. I recognized the familiar molded lettering on the sides… the names of Ball and Kerr and Mason, written in swirled lettering. Most were made within my generation, but some were from before.

Each jar was loosely wrapped in soft brown paper. The brass colored metal rings very lightly held a flat lid within. They had taken the time to place a small square of plastic wrap under each lid to keep out the dust until its next use. The insides were as clean as the day they were hand dried beside the old porcelain sink in the kitchen of that country home. It is an obligation to take the time to care for them just as the family before me… and with every use the memory continues.

                                                         Shannon R Killman

Extra Change

I’ve been working on a beautiful century old building for almost three months now… the summer months found me searching for relief in front of a fan in the old brick building while we patiently waited for the new air conditioning systems to be installed. They now sit, perched upon her new metal roof.

Every morning as the sun fills the front glass and while I’m planning my morning, I hear the now familiar ringing of the bells on the railroad crossing arms. They are a prelude to the thundering sound of the morning train as it races through town… its air horn fills the air with deafening sound. And I always pause to watch like I have my entire life. I still count the cars and look for graffiti and I remember sitting in my bed as a boy in the night, listening to the distant train on the edge of the city.

The small town has become friendly to me. I see the faces of her people… in the bank, in the corner drug store that still sells small bottles of Coca Cola in an old fading Coke machine. I speak to the man that owns the laundromat across the street… his building once held the town’s post office. The beautiful columns and pressed metal ceiling feel out of place amongst the rusting, commercial washers and dryers and dusty floor littered with used dryer sheets.

The friendly ladies at the insurance office smile and wave as we walk to one of the lunch counters in town... they sit near the windows and look up from their desks. The petite oriental lady at the Chinese food restaurant has my chop sticks ready when I come through her doors… She speaks very little English but smiles shyly and quickly bows her head when I tell her thank you.

The elderly couple that owns the antique shop on the edge of the block is always full of conversation of the town… I know who is selling their estate and where the local barber is moving his business… there’s even word that the mayor is thinking of retiring after his present term is up, but that may only be gossip, mind you. And the elegant crystal blue eyed grandmother of four at the gas station doesn’t have to remind me that pump number two isn’t working… she always asks how the work is coming on our old building.

I still want to sneak out in the night and place pennies on the track like we did at my great-grandmothers house in the desert. She lived behind the tracks and after so many years, didn’t notice the trains as they rolled behind her unfenced yard. The train would rumble in slow motion in the evening as the sun fell near the purple mountains. My brother and I would search through the rocks and over the railroad ties for our pennies… flattened into shiny oval keepsakes. Grandmother Lena would warn us to be careful of the train and tell us the coins may derail it… all the while counting out one cent pieces into our young hands…

I think I’ll carry some extra change to work with me tomorrow…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

Just Words

We’ve had more children come through our doors than we can count. We don’t have the biggest house or the fanciest house. It’s not in a gated community and she’s not multilevel. We never put in that swimming pool and she’s always under some kind of remodel or upgrade.

The children of the neighborhood and the friends of our children have always been able to come and go freely and there’s always cold water and drinks in the fridge. And like we tell them all the time… we eat almost every day around here, so be sure and stop by. We would always cook for six, but never really knew if we were going to have an extra mouth to feed. Someone would stop by or one of the kids would have a friend with them. We loved them with food… and we love to cook.

There is one young man that grew up with my son… he’s a tall and well mannered boy who seems to know everyone in town. He is easy to have a conversation with and has an opinion on just about everything. But he never eats anything we prepare. He will show up unannounced and plop down on the couch just to visit and soon he will be on his way. He would show up even when my son wasn’t home, and we always welcomed him. Through our conversations I found out that his parents don't tell him they love him and he never says the words to them either... he assumes they don't need to because they know how each other feels. And besides, he told me, they’re just words…

They’re just words…

When his visit is over and after he has refused anything to eat, I always pat him like he’s my boy and tell him I love him. We laugh about it and he always pauses and nods his head with acknowledgement.

My son has moved out but we still see his friends. Some may come by for the laughter. Some may come by for advice… some may come by for a good meal. And some may come by for just the words…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

On the Tracks

Recently, my drive to work takes me through our town in the early hours of the day. I make my way past the last stop lights and follow the horizon into the countryside and into the peach country of Edgefield County.

There are several small communities on the way. Fragile, forgotten businesses still hold to the past. Their windows are full of old advertisements… the worn storefronts all in need of a fresh coat of paint. I pass a handful of gas stations that serve breakfast and lunch for the migrant workers… they sit and stand in groups of three or four and speak in whispers.

The first week of my travels found me looking for the details of the journey. I drove through an area where there are peach orchards on both sides of the road… some fields with trees overflowing with ripe peaches and some fields holding their buds for a late summer crop. And that’s when I saw him… he was as dark as the night and stood on the side of the road. He was looking to the sound of my Jeep and I felt his eyes as I passed him by. I didn’t think much of him other than he seemed too close to the road…

Over the next few days, I looked for him and he would appear without warning in the tall grass near the road. Every time I saw him he was nearer to town and I realized he was on the move… but always looking at every car that passed. He looked healthy… his ears flopped at the tips and he walked with purpose.

I bought a small bag of dog food that night and kept it in my front seat. I kept my eyes on the sides of the road all the way to my job-site, but I didn’t see him… I wondered where he was and if he was safe. After several days, I had given up when I spotted him fifteen miles nearer to home. He was on the tracks…

I slowed to the side of the road and pulled his dog food from under my tools on the floorboard. The yellow bag was now wrinkled and worn, but it held his meal. He looked up as I approach... I gave him my nicest, puppy-talk voice and shook the bag of food. He stopped to study me. His eyes were sharp and steady and I could feel his anxiety. I opened the bag and made a pile on the worn and weathered timbers… some of the food spilled onto the gravel and I paused to pick it up.

He watched me intently as I moved back toward the road. I spoke in soft tones to encourage him as he lifted his head to smell the air. I sat quietly as he ate… the morning fog fell on us like a blanket.  We both made our way toward our destination just a little happier… I headed south on old highway 23 and he headed north on a path to a new day.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman 

Twice to the Right

I went to high school orientation for two of the children yesterday. There were scores of teachers and coaches, administrators and volunteers on the ready for us. We clamored into the crowded parking lot in this unfamiliar plot and headed into the spacious entrance to the newest high school in the state.

There once was a secret shortcut between two major roads that took hurried drivers to and from our little community. If you took a quick detour during the right time of day, it would save you at least fifteen minutes of driving time. Corley Mill Road is a narrow lane, covered on both sides by ancient oak and pine trees. The Corley family has owned the acreage on both sides of the road for generations and any attempt on purchasing a beautiful scenic lot had always been met with polite resistance… until now.

The designers of River Bluff High School took the history of the area and the tranquility of the rolling hills into mind when they designed the footprint of the school. It sits quietly behind thickly wooded acreage and is accessed down a double-lane drive bordered by a red brick and limestone columned entrance. The school opens up past a clearing in the trees and beckons the eyes toward its modern architecture.

It is the largest high school in the state and is on the cusp of technology. There will be no excuse for the lack of the best education and any athlete will be proud of the state-of-the-art facilities it will provide for generations to come. I walked into the gym and felt the same way I did when I peered around the double, metal doors in my old high school for the first time. Robert E Lee High was the biggest school I had ever walked into and every area was a new adventure for the senses.

My first day of high school was intimidating. The block walls of the hallways were freshly painted and the floors were clean and polished. The halls were lined with locker after locker… there was a subtle roar of voices from as far as my eyes could see and the clanking sound of the lockers opening and shutting still sits in my mind. I had two combination locks… both had the same combination. I had practiced opening them up the night before… saving the combination to memory. My books would be safe behind the spinning dial.

I found my locker with its fading metal number and lifted the lever to hear that now familiar slide behind its louvered cover. It was clean except for a dusting of rust in the back corners and I piled my textbooks inside… first in a flat stack and then standing up with the spines facing me.  I closed it shut with a hollow clank and slid my lock into the chrome handle.

I would follow the same pattern, day after day and year after year. My locker would soon be filled to capacity with paper and notebooks. It held love letters and pencil bags… binders and socks, gym clothes and a brown paper bag for lunch.

My kids don’t have lockers. The school is filled with interactive, flat screen monitors and computer work stations. They carry their books in the memory of their iPads. They are moving ahead of us in technology, but they may be missing some of the little things… like spinning their lock twice to the right before landing on the first number or finding a note secretly tucked inside of a messy locker.

    

                                                                         Shannon R Killman

600 Calhoun

She anchors this corner like she has since 1898. Once she was clean and straight… she was fresh and a tribute to the block of this bustling rural town. The country railway system made its way through Johnston, SC and the surrounding communities. With it came the materials and supplies that were once only accessible through horse and wagon. And with it came growth of the small town.

The storefront building faced the railway. It was the first large construction project in town. All of the storefront shops were tied together in one building. There is a common attic space that spans the entire block… and a common crawl space.  All of the timbers were cut locally from long leaf pine trees that were a century old at the time. The floor joist beams are a full and strong and after a century have become dense with ancient pine sap.

I ventured into the attic through a roughly cut access hole in the majestic twelve foot ceiling. I pulled myself past the wooden ceiling that was nailed to the heavy ceiling joists… it had darkened with time and the old hand brushed lacquer finish had pebbled to an orange peel texture… the ceiling boards were all that held the weather from the inside of the building. The high ceilings held the heat of the summer and swept it away with small porthole windows near the tops of the heavily plastered walls.

The attic held the secrets of time. A thin layer of black dust held onto every crevice of the space. It was a mix of ancient dust and the escaped black smoke of the wood stove that was in use for decades. The heavy hand driven nails pulled the raw timbers together and held them as they aged and cured in place. They stood as a testament to the workers and craftsmen that hammered her into shape.

The first occupant of 600 Calhoun supplied the community with grain and seed. The farmers of the surrounding areas would come through the double windowed front doors and were greeted with enthusiasm. Throughout the fifty plus years housing a feed and seed store, small cracks in the wooden plank floors left seed chaff scatted on the dry ground beneath. 

A teenager left for the Armed Services and returned to town a grown man. He had arms strong and wide… the townspeople dubbed him “Rock”. In the 1950’s Rock purchased the corner building. He worked busily on radio tubes that powered the world with sound through radios. He had a booming business. He held government contracts that kept him busy for many years. It was said that in the late evenings in the quiet nights, a steady flash of lights could be seen from deep within the store… reflecting from his electric tools onto the white walls and into the sleepy street.

Time and technology took its toll on his business so he leased the front of his building to a young lady who sold beads and flowers. She had colorful posters and incense. She taught macramé classes and sold little round sunglasses. It is said that when the modern music from her record player would change from one song to another, you could hear faint music playing from the back of the building… soft music from days gone by.

Electronic transistors rapidly took the place of vacuum and radio tubes. The contracts slowed and Rock felt the years upon him. He sold the building to a young couple with dreams of making it a restaurant. And they did. They sold hot coffee at the counter and had peach pie in the warmer. They sold the restaurant after several years and the front of the building was transformed into a bar.

It was a happy place. The glasses were new and clean. The smiles of the owners were there to greet you when you came through the front door. They played country music and made mixed drinks with shaved ice. People of town would come in to enjoy themselves… they were looking for a place to laugh and to forget the hard work of the day and of the week. But after some time the glasses weren’t as shiny as they once were… the walls were darkened with nicotine. Smiles were replaced with saddened stares and tired eyes. And time dragged on…

Our building felt the stress of time and the strain of layers of paint… the addition of walls of separation. Wires and switches were added, holes were drilled in her rafters for plumbing, layers of flooring stacked upon each other and cracking plaster had been ignored or covered over with paneling. Moisture took its toll on the floors and on the roof. She watched the owners and renters come and go… they added weight to her walls and weight to her soul. Her foundations were settling and the mortar in her brick joints were failing… she looked to her past… and she yearned for a future.

We walked through her front doors and could feel her history. Layers of time pulled at the weight of the hinges and the dust of years of neglect fell upon our eyes. And we smiled. And then we planned. We felt her acceptance. We pulled down the out of place walls and trim. We stripped the ceilings of tile from decades past. We patched her walls and lifted her foundations. We cleaned the attic and swept away the years. We hauled off truck loads of debris.

And we could feel her relief. Her doors moved free of rust. Laughter fills her spaces. Fresh paint smooths her walls now. Her new roof holds out the water from the skies. Insulation soothes her attic as never before. Fresh tile fills the kitchen floors and light fills her ceilings. Fresh, cool air circulates like never before and she breaths in full breaths. And she feels her purpose. And she will have a new family for generations…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

of Flowers and Rain

The dark skies pulled the light from the horizon and a heaviness made its way to us. We felt the trees move in their tops and they dressed us in the white flower petals of the crepe myrtle blossoms…

The skies were upon us in a rush... the trees released their lace under the weight of the downpour. The driveway was awash with rain and white flowers… trained into a track of moving waters.

We sat on the porch and listened and we inhaled the mist of water from the rooftop… the driveway spilled onto the sidewalk and ankle high water fought against the border grass.

And we waited for the calm…

                                                           

                                                            Shannon R Killman

Still Just a Boy

 

My son and I sat in the early evening on the front porch… summer was here and the warm breeze held us outside for a passing moment.

Cody has left our nest and is busy creating his own… he is consumed with the every day details of owning his new home and balancing his life.

We talked about the bills and we talked about plans for the future and we talked about work and family. He looked to the driveway and looked to the skies as we spoke. He is a man on the outside…

We sat in the quiet for a moment and he moved across my view… he moved with purpose and joy. And then I saw them too… the summer’s lightning bugs. They pulsed in and out of my eyes as I tried to follow their trek.

I watched Cody run through the grass with hands waving and eyes wide open… he jumped and gasped like he was still just a boy. And I remembered him in his youth with dew-drops of perspiration pooling on his cheeks as he chased the young summer’s lights…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

the Way to My Immortality

a note to my son-in-law Jake

I’ve spent my entire adult life looking after my children. I watched them come into this world and have spent every moment of their lives concerned upon their well being. I have cradled and hugged them… I have held their hands and watched them as they slept. I’ve cried with them and laughed with them. I wondered how there was any more room in my heart for each one after the other.

When they were young, I was involved in the every day things of their lives. I read to each one of them and tucked them into bed. I was there to help them dress and to cook for them and feed them. I was there to keep them safe and try to look to their future for them… it was all consuming.

As I got older, and the children became independent and didn’t need my direction, I felt like I was loosing something. It was as though I was loosing parts of myself… the parts of myself that they had added to me. I could only watch as they grew and hope that they had learned the proper ways of life.

As I watched my Grandparents age into their twilight, I saw my mortality. As I watch my parents follow the path of their parents I can feel my mortality. And I ponder upon the future.

And that’s when we found you. It wasn’t an accident... nothing is an accident. Natalie talked about you… her eyes were bright and full when she spoke your name. You made her happy… you took her breath. And she loved you… and we love you. There is always room in our hearts for another child… another son. And now I realize the way to my immortality. It will be through you…

Happy birthday son…
                                       Shannon R Killman                        

Still Young and Strong

My oldest memory of a man of my family was my Great-grandfather Baker. He was an immigrant from Germany. He was a hard working man. He stood strong with his family and watched the years bring children and grand children and great grand children to him.

I can only remember him in foggy snapshots of time. I was too young to understand why he could no longer speak. I would sit with Grandma Baker as she fed him soft food and watch him as he slowly chewed. He would smile with his eyes as I asked my grandma why he didn’t swallow. His old chair held him tall and thin. I remember the chirping of the wood as it rubbed against itself.

He was old… my grandfather aging and strong… my father seemed young and strong and I was still young.

My grandfather Killman was a hard working man. He raised his family and after a tragic accident, he raised his brother’s children as his own. I remember his laughter and also his stern words that confused me as a boy. He kept us guessing. He didn’t hold us tight like my grandmother did… but he told us he loved us and we knew.

Time was slow against him. I watched him grow thin. His face was smooth but time took his strength. At one time I had to reach up to hug his neck. In his last of years I would stand with him and hold him to my chest. He would tell me that he was old and he knew his time was coming.

My grandfather was old… my father aging and strong… I was young and strong and my children were still young.

My father has always been a man of men. He had the chest of a bull and the strength of two. I knew to always be on the ready… Dad would clamp his hand over my knee and make me squeal in laughter and pain. His hands were strong… his voice was strong. His opinions were strong. And when I look to the mirror, I see his face. Time is pulling on him now and we only talk about it in short conversation. He speaks of God and he speaks of forgiveness. He directs in the ways of love and patience…

My father seems old to me now… I am aging and strong… my children are still young and strong… and it continues…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Jackson Alexander Killman

You came into our lives and I wept with joy without shame.

Your eyes were full and open to your new world.

We were there to guide… we were there to direct.

We tried to say the right words.

And we watched you grow.

You continue to seek out new truths and look to the future.

You entertain us with your joy of life.

You direct your peers in the ways of God.

He is watching and knows your heart.

He is there to guide where man cannot.

                                                                        Shannon R Killman

                                                                       

                    1 Samuel 1:27-28

For this child I prayed, and the Lord has granted me my petition that I made to him. Therefore I have lent him to the Lord. As long as he lives, he is lent to the Lord.” And he worshiped the Lord there.

Somebody

Somebody roamed the woods on a spring day and watched the sun as it stood in the sky.

Somebody found the place… the place for a home and place for the ages.

Somebody picked through the undergrowth of the woods to collect the stones for the foundation and for the hearth.

Somebody felt the aches and pains of the toil of labor in the construction of the walls and they felt the pride of ownership of a hard days work.

Somebody sat in the shade of the oaks and pines that protected their home from the winter winds.

Somebody sat on the ground with their family and watched the children run through the wood and boards that yearned for purpose.

Somebody looked into the eyes of their loved ones and smiled with joy as the smoke from the chimney filled the land with the aroma of life.

Somebody laughed with joy within these walls… and cried the tears of sadness.

Somebody grew old here and remembered the years…

Somebody looks upon these ruins and tries to hear the voices of the past...

                                                                 Shannon R Killman