Comfort Food

When I am having a bad day… I think of the creamer in my hot coffee. It settles into the heavy porcelain cup and swirls its way into the deep flavors of my morning... in the quiet, calm.

When I hear the angry words that fall like arrows into my soul… I think of the crusty pecan pie my grandmother worked to perfection in the old gas stove. Waiting on it to cool was as hard as waiting on Christmas morning. She made it sweet and chewy like glazed candy.

When I am hot and feel the sun draining my strength… I think of sweet Southern tea. The ice sang a familiar tune against the heavy glass that held the brew of my memories. The droplets of condensation felt sharp and cool against my hands…

When I feel the fire in my throat from a winter cold… I think of the old maple rolling pin in my mother’s hands. Its familiar rhythmic clink sings a comforting tune to the soft flour dumplings that would swell and simmer within the chicken stock waiting on the front burner of the stove of my youth.

When I feel the doldrums of the day… I think of the wooden ice-cream churn in my grandfather’s backyard. The hand crank played a gentle game of tag with the checkered cloth that covered the salty ice that we watched with wanting eyes. We rolled the wooden handle in squeaky circles knowing the paddle inside would provide a treasured treat.

When I feel the sadness or withdrawn... I think of the homemade chocolate chip cookies that brightened the darkest of days. The colorful glass mixing bowl held the time tested batter that was too tempting not to taste. The unmistakable aroma filled the house and spilled to the outside through the open window.

                                                          Shannon R Killman 

the Parts of Me

How else would I have learned to be a patient man?  I had to learn to turn the pages of life at someone else’s pace. You taught me to think of others first and to make the decisions of life with careful deliberation.

How else would I have learned to dance without care? We would play together among watching eyes and dance to our own tunes. You would spin in circles while holding my hand as the world was only ours in that moment.

How else would I have learned to love another before myself? I felt complete as I watched you sleep… each breath was a continuation of my mortality. I longed to hold your hand and to see your smile. Nothing else mattered.

How else would I have learned humility? The pride of my youth was of no use to me when you shared your world with me. You taught me the lessons of life that I thought I needed to teach to you.

How else would I have learned to cry? I learned to feel the joys and the pains of others. It became a reflex that worked its way into my protective shell. You taught me to show the emotions of a caring father.

The parts of me that I claim as my own are not really mine at all. You have made me the man I am on the inside with the life experiences that you have given to me and the things you have taught me. That is what makes this Father's Day special to me…

                                                            Shannon R Killman

and Never Alone

I walked alone tonight… in the cool air and in the sleepy neighborhood.

I walked alone as I stretched my neck to see the crescent moon floating in the dark… perched like a mirage.

I walked alone as I spotted the first lightning bug of the summer… It hid from my eyes in spurts as I tried to track its path.

I walked alone with my shadow. I followed the flowing giant from lamp post to lamp post. Its pace was steady.

I walked alone with the sounds of the tree frogs… they sang as one in the echo of the streets.

I walked alone with our dog Cash… the rhythm of his collar kept tempo within my footsteps. He marched from curb to curb, staying alert to my reassuring voice.

I walked alone with the stars that blinked through the treetops. They remain constant and observant.

I walked with my memories of the quiet and of the calm. As I trace my steps… never alone.

                                                    Shannon R Killman

Through it All

I held an old photograph, its edges scalloped. The image was of a beautiful young girl. She held a tiny baby doll in her arms. You looked lovingly into her big blue eyes that closed and opened as you moved her up and down. All around were the things you needed to keep her safe… her blanket, her bottle, her toys and her crib. When your mother asked what you had decided to name your new little girl, you held her close and looked through her long shiny eyelashes… and you told her “Baby”. You were a wonderful Mother.

In another photo, you brushed the long, flowing hair of another doll... this one slender and tan. She was missing one of her petite, pointy shoes. You would pull her hair back and brush it into a ponytail. The rubber bands would hold the nylon hair tight as you dressed her into new outfits. Your mother watched as you struggled to get her arms through the small holes in the sleeves. She was fancy and beautiful and you would look to her as you fell asleep at night. You were a wonderful Mother.

Time would find you next door at the neighbor’s house… their young daughter still very dependent upon the touch of a caregiver. They left you in the care of her for a short while as they drove away for the evening. You played with her and held her… her trust in you was evident as she held your hand. You changed her clothes and fed her a snack while you sang a sweet song. She looked into your eyes and smiled the smile of trust. You were a wonderful Mother.

You sat in the low light… the hum of your voice was soft… and clear. There could have been crowd around you, but you were in your world… the world of your purpose. The warmth of your skin gave life to your children. Your hearts beat as one through times of sickness and tears… through joys that only a mother can know. You hold them close when they are afraid of the world and when they may only need a touch. You feed them your soul. There have been times of turmoil and fear and yet they still look to your eyes for the security that can come with the calming light of a mother’s eyes.

Through it all… you have been a wonderful Mother

                                                                  

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Ode to O2... by Jackson Killman

You, oxygen, are taken for

granted by so many.

You are the origin of life.

I want to breathe you in

and never let you go.

You bring my cells life

as you enter my domain.

Once you are within me,

oh how my life is changed.

Inhale… exhale…

Inhale… exhale…

You are the best part of life,

never failing to bring my body a burst.

Inhale of oxygen…

                             Jackson Killman

at Fifteen

Me- good morning Katelin
Katelin- what time can we go get my permit?
Me- do you have all of your stuff for school?
Katelin- what time does the DMV close?
Me- what kind of cake you want sweetheart?
Katelin- do I get to choose my picture on my permit?
Me- I love you baby... Happy Birthday!
Katelin- How long does it take to take the test for the permit?

                                                                         Shannon R Killman

                                             

the Blue Velvet Rope

We met today… downtown… in an old theater behind the State Capital building. The old theater was dark with plywood floors and mix-matched seating. You could hear the hollowness beneath every step. As I walked into the double doors, I had to pause to let my eyes adjust to the heaviness of the dark. I was looking for an aroma… there should have been an aroma. Perhaps the aroma of aging plaster walls… perhaps the aroma of time and of the old sagging rafters that held back the Southern humidity. But there was none.

We all said our names and where we were from. Some were from the Upstate, some were from the Pee-Dee, others were from the Low Country and I was from the Midlands. I was surprised how my voice carried in this little theater… the walls fell upon my ears as I said my name out loud.

We were meeting in a strategy session… a grass roots get together. I don’t know much about the inner workings of the State Legislature, so this was my opportunity to observe. A young lady with two counterparts introduced herself as a lobbyist for the Solar Business Alliance. They are a group that is trying to lobby passage of a bill that would give consumers a tax credit for installing and using solar energy… the H.3346 SC Jobs Creation Bill.

Almost everyone else in the group had participated in a similar meeting in the past. I was taking notes as the lobbyists spoke. And suddenly I was lost in my note taking… I realized it was better to listen and just work my way through the process. They spoke of cabinet meetings and local Legislators, county officials, Senators and Representatives. There were the Senate floor and reform meetings to consider. She hurriedly spoke of sub committees and bills in the calendar… she mentioned committee chairmanship and who to look for. My pen went into my shirt pocket and I smiled into the dark.

We were to meet the Senators in the State House lobby. We were the faces behind the industry. We were showing the Senators that we needed there support in continuing the bill through the sub committee in the Senate Finance Committee… a baby step… but a step.

We made our way around the capital building… a beautiful blue granite building that held, for memorial, the gentle scars left by cannon fire from Sherman’s Army during the Civil War. The entry doors were narrow and led to a grand hallway with arched staircases that led up to the lobby. The Senators were meeting in the Senate chambers on the left and the Representatives were meeting in the House chambers on the right.

We were only a handful of people in the crowd. There were hundreds of us. Everyone had an issue to support… or not to support. I walked through the crowd… listening as I went. I heard the accents of the South. I heard the accents industries… some from other countries. A German gentleman felt confined as he tried to talk with his hands.

If they desired, a Senator would appear from within the chamber and approach a blue velvet rope. We were instructed not to cross the blue velvet rope… they didn’t look kindly upon that. The noise level remained constant. It wasn’t too loud, nor was it quiet… but it remained consistent. The sound of rehearsed laughter pierced the air on occasion and I thought about the sincerity of it all.

I shook hands with many. Some were on the Senate side and some I found on the Representative side. I had no business on right side of the building, but I was curious... all the time, keeping an eye on the blue velvet rope beneath the Senate Chamber Doors.

The Senators looked like Senators look everywhere. They were well dressed and had gray or graying hair. They had learned the art of leaning slightly back in their stance… I assumed it was to maintain their personal space within the crowd. There were abundant smiles and nods of approval and looks of concern. It seemed to be a vital part in the play… the play of politics.

As I made my way back to the staircase, I imagined myself in these chambers so many generations ago. The style of dress would have been different, but the lobby would have been much the same with its colorful marble floors… with the paintings of South Carolina Heroes on the walls and the chatter and conversation on the matters of State of the day. And I know just in front of the double doors that led into the inner chambers stood a boundary in which not to cross…

On the first floor of the State House stands a marble replica depicting the South Carolina Declaration of Secession. It is carved with the signatures of the men that held office in both chambers in those years. I took the time to read over the names… and was surprised to see the same sir names of the men who hold office today… behind the blue velvet rope.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman