Homecoming

I want to throw it back to five years ago when my husband and I experienced our first homecoming together. I’ve rewritten the first few paragraphs of an introduction over an over again never satisfied with how my words sounded on paper. Instead I’m going to let the pictures speak for themselves, after all a photo speaks more than 1,000 words.

All you need to know is this:

  1. Matt was in the Navy
  2. I had been living in Florida
  3. It had been 8 months since I’d seen him in the flesh
  4. He had been on deployment for almost 7 months
  5. I was worried about seeing him again for the first time in what felt like ages
  6. His father and uncle also were there to welcome him home

39879_480220469534_1253583_n

It was a hot day in Virginia Beach near the end of June. Thousands of eager families crowded around pier 11 hoping to spot their sailors. Each seamen was dressed in their Navy dress whites making the search a grown up version of Where’s Waldo.

39136_480219599534_6685638_n

Finally after hours of sharing the sweat being passed between the shoulders of fellow families waiting. We could see the Dwight D. Eisenhower pulling into the bay.

38535_480220854534_220912_n

I stood on my tippy toes waiting to see if I could find Matt first. The sun was hot; beating down on my back and burning the soles of my flats to my feet.

38535_480220844534_5030266_n

I was nervous and unsure if I should be there. It had been a bumpy ride to get where I (we) was at and not knowing how everything was going to unfold was worrisome. This can either go really bad and awkward or overwhelmingly wonderful.

After what felt like hours, Matt’s father finally spot Matt in the sea of sailors trying to find their loved ones for the long awaited hug. All of a sudden the past 8 months had flown by and now I was about to see him again. My stomach dropped to my knees.

38535_480220864534_2966212_n

As soon as I was able to touch him all those worries went away. It was the best hug I had ever received and still stands as number one to this day.

39510_480220654534_7462067_n

38535_480220859534_5452319_n

39510_480220649534_4475725_n

It was an overwhelming feeling to finally be able to see him face to face. It was as if nothing had changed. He was a tad bit skinner and a heck of a lot whiter, but he was still my Matt.

39510_480220664534_3929589_n

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.

I’ve got the ‘Ities & the Itch

Unknown-1

The art of writing is a sacred being, its appeal is charming and the idea easy, the latter is never true. Writing isn’t easy and it never will be. If you write long enough you acquire a passion for words and new ways to express them, but it’s never an easy journey, though nothing worth while hardly ever is.

Any soul who enjoys the magic of writing remembers when they first got the itch to put pen to paper and create something creative. Any “great” remembers the craving to prefect a skill became apparent. A jolt of weightless energy that hits you hard, causing the lightbulb to brighten above your head. That’s what I want to do!

Personally, I was little, maybe six or seven, too little to actually be thinking about future plans, but I knew I enjoyed reading what I wrote and creating short stories were my fav.

I acquired an eccentric style of writing while in grammar school, and my mom thought it was adorable. I had a funny tendency to only write on the left-hand edges of my paper, the rest of the paper seemed tainted. I remember thinking, look how many pages I can write! Well, when you only use half the page …

My signature trademark was soon corrected by the first or second grade, whenever the teachers start to send you home with real homework. I’m sure it’s Pre-K now, the books are heavier and the snow they have to walk to school in is deeper.

Anyways, my itch started with writing fan fiction, I didn’t know that’s what it was called, but regardless, anybody remember the T.V. series Arthur? Yes, yes I did. I wrote my own stories for Arthur and his family and friends to wander through. I wrote some stories that were funny, others were sad. Mostly, I liked to write ones that had a good moral buried in it. Typical Shannon, I was seven going on 30. 

images-2

My mom used to keep them in her dresser, the bottom right hand drawer. By the time I was in my teens the drawer resembled how stuffed and worn it was, papers were being pushed from the sides, the handle was hanging on by one screw and the drawer had long been knocked off its frame. It was the perfect setting for where my mom crammed us kids’ works of art.

The prized possessions were all slightly brown and had obviously seen better days. Every once in a while I wonder if my mom still has them shoved in that drawer, but the memory vanishes by the time one of us calls each other.

It took years of denying any worth to my writing before I told myself to shut the -efff up. I started my higher education with the thought I’d never leave education, I’d just become a teacher. I did my classroom visits and almost ran out the door, though working with kids was rewarding.

I think that when something sinks its teeth into you, it’s hard to deny the sting it leaves. Writing got its dirty paws around me long ago, and the sooner I realized it, the quicker I believed I did have a purpose. College really does seem to suck the life out of you sometimes. 

When did your passions sink their teeth into you? Was it a furry, ( what was Arthur? An Aardvark?) cartoon friend that sparked your enthusiasm!?

-Ramble Out