LOSS
A bench, worn and weathered, absent of the human that would sit in that chair.
Every morning, my love would take his fresh brewed coffee, black, with cream and sugar, and go out into the garden to inhale the freshness of the dewey dahlias and the fragrant cedar needles.
I dream of the time we will do that again. It brought much happiness to me when this dance of your morning appreciation of a new day would shine it's light on us. And you thought I wasn't watching.
How I miss those sounds of your movements in the kitchen. The routine of letting the cats in, the gentle stirring of the sugar spoon in the coffee. It gives me great joy to know, that you are watching me each day at this same time at 7:15 a.m. But alas, the routine has lost it's flavor.
As I write these words, one would think that I would be writing about my late-husband, Larry. It's true, we had a similar routine. But while writing these words in my Writers Journey meeting, I was smelling the odd cigarette odor...a common smell I get when I believe my father is around me. Yes, I have lost my mind sometimes, but as I get more clarity about my developing skill of connection, I know that it was my father I was writing about.
My old, old friends know my history. They knew my dad (just saying hi to my Mendocino High School alumni is appropriate). He was an amazing man. Of course, my bias as his daughter, can be deafening. Carl Eugene Godsey, was born in Yakima, Washington. He was the sixth child of James Edward Godsey and Clara Bell Neal. Four years after his birth, they divorced. Essentially, my father was raised by a single mother. The stories of older brothers did not paint a good picture of my grandfather "Ed". Although respectfully shared, the stories of my grandmother Clara, were mostly about her religious upbringing and dedication, to The Church of God, and her second husband's young family with her step-mother duties. My father took to the streets of Sacramento and ended up in Preston (now known as the California Youth Authority). He went into the Army as soon as he was released from there.
He was tough and crusty, genetically induced by the Godsey historical lines and endeavors...all the way back to Jamestown, Virginia. Many of the Godsey ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, one Great Great Grandmother was kidnapped by Indians for five years - during the French-Indian War in Cumberland gap area. My father did his fair share of fighting for the country himself, World War II and the Korean War. He was a career soldier until about 1963. My fine-tuning of characters for my other book "The Scooter Boys of Dallas Ranch" (still in draft/mental form), he will be one of the characters..I will be using his military experience as a primary staging of the book. Why not honor him?
So now, my friends, it's time to stop here, and get back to my amblings about Mary Jackson Brayton....Thank you for reading, and please make a comment or two.
Namaste....Lori
A bench, worn and weathered, absent of the human that would sit in that chair.
Every morning, my love would take his fresh brewed coffee, black, with cream and sugar, and go out into the garden to inhale the freshness of the dewey dahlias and the fragrant cedar needles.
I dream of the time we will do that again. It brought much happiness to me when this dance of your morning appreciation of a new day would shine it's light on us. And you thought I wasn't watching.
How I miss those sounds of your movements in the kitchen. The routine of letting the cats in, the gentle stirring of the sugar spoon in the coffee. It gives me great joy to know, that you are watching me each day at this same time at 7:15 a.m. But alas, the routine has lost it's flavor.
As I write these words, one would think that I would be writing about my late-husband, Larry. It's true, we had a similar routine. But while writing these words in my Writers Journey meeting, I was smelling the odd cigarette odor...a common smell I get when I believe my father is around me. Yes, I have lost my mind sometimes, but as I get more clarity about my developing skill of connection, I know that it was my father I was writing about.
My old, old friends know my history. They knew my dad (just saying hi to my Mendocino High School alumni is appropriate). He was an amazing man. Of course, my bias as his daughter, can be deafening. Carl Eugene Godsey, was born in Yakima, Washington. He was the sixth child of James Edward Godsey and Clara Bell Neal. Four years after his birth, they divorced. Essentially, my father was raised by a single mother. The stories of older brothers did not paint a good picture of my grandfather "Ed". Although respectfully shared, the stories of my grandmother Clara, were mostly about her religious upbringing and dedication, to The Church of God, and her second husband's young family with her step-mother duties. My father took to the streets of Sacramento and ended up in Preston (now known as the California Youth Authority). He went into the Army as soon as he was released from there.
He was tough and crusty, genetically induced by the Godsey historical lines and endeavors...all the way back to Jamestown, Virginia. Many of the Godsey ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, one Great Great Grandmother was kidnapped by Indians for five years - during the French-Indian War in Cumberland gap area. My father did his fair share of fighting for the country himself, World War II and the Korean War. He was a career soldier until about 1963. My fine-tuning of characters for my other book "The Scooter Boys of Dallas Ranch" (still in draft/mental form), he will be one of the characters..I will be using his military experience as a primary staging of the book. Why not honor him?
So now, my friends, it's time to stop here, and get back to my amblings about Mary Jackson Brayton....Thank you for reading, and please make a comment or two.
Namaste....Lori
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