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July 13, 2013

carriesuepepper • Jul 13, 2010

Down the cobblestone path to my Little House, the stones cool on my feet, I step into my very own space.  Instantly, the world outside is hushed and my senses are filled with the smell of books and paper and the sweet smell of my pine writing desk that Kevin build so lovingly for me.  It is all mine this Little House.  And it speaks to me today.  This is what I hear:  This is your destiny to be a writer; you were born for it; this is your passion and when you step away, when you do not write, your heart is empty and you are not on your path; you are not on purpose.   I thought, yes, this is my “Why.”  This is the reason I am sacrificing time now; this is why I am willing to work hard to build my freedom so that I can come here for more than one precious hour or two in the morning.  This is worth all the frustration I will encounter.  This is worth talking to people all day, every day to deliver a message that does not come from me – it is only delivered by me.  God directed me here to offer others a chance at freedom.  I asked him for a way and he directed me here less than a week later – and when I start thinking this is about me and what I want, and what I need I remember that.

I look out my little window into our backyard, my soft green ferns blowing in a cool breeze, and I see the rainforest and beyond that, the turquoise waters of a warm ocean.  I know that is where I am going.  And I know I will be there in the next 3 years.  I smile and go to that place in myself when I will step into my writing studio three years hence, where I will come into my very own space and know I have no time restriction.  Time slows and my fingers run across the keyboard unencumbered with a schedule – I write until I am empty of thoughts.  I stack my papers on my desk, clean white sheets with nice black ink, and I walk on the beach, I swim in warm waters and watch Kevin swimming with long backstrokes, gliding along in the waves, free and happy to live in his element.  And I smile in knowing that our belief and our love for others, my belief in myself, and our constant effort has brought us what we always knew we deserved – and not only us, but those special ones who believed with us, who stood by us in our battle for freedom. 

I sit on our lanai in late afternoon, sipping a glass of pineapple juice, pouring over my pages in a final edit, and I am filled with a sense of joy and release and my entire body is warm and relaxed and complete.

The post July 13, 2013 first appeared on Carrie Pepper.

Carrie Pepper

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Today, while out on a walk in a very high wind, I spotted a little bird way up in the tip top of a bare oak tree; she was holding on every so tightly as the wind tossed and shook the branches. Hold on, little one, I thought. And just then, this quote came to mind. “A bird sitting on a tree is never afraid of the branch breaking, because her trust is not in the branch, but in her own wings.” ― Charlie Wardle As I watched her, I imagined my own wings and wondered just how hard the wind is going to need to blow in my life for me to loosen them, pinned tightly to my sides, unfurl them—then TRUST as the currents lift me off my (branch) and I soar effortless and without fear.

Street Signs Can Be Memory Joggers

By Carrie Pepper • 30 Nov, 2023
Out on my morning walk, street signs acted as memory joggers. Perhaps they were nudges so that I could remember, and be grateful for, these two women who were there for me as a kid. BRADFORD was the first sign. Grammy Bradford. I never called her anything else and I have no idea what her first name was, but I do remember she was there to tend to me when I was little while my mother went off to work at her government job "in procurement," which she hated. I know nothing, really, of what she did there, but I do remember the room. It seemed there were hundreds of desks in this huge room, no partitions. Dark grey desks and heavy black telephones. I visited her there a few times and she'd give me tablets and pens to keep me busy. I was ALWAYS thrilled to have a tablet and a pen! What she did there is a mystery to me, but when she and my father would argue, which was often, she'd always say, "I want my own money," and so off she went to work every morning at the Defense General Supply Center. He told her she didn't need to work, that he could support her, but, again, she wanted her own money. Back to Mrs. Bradford, Grammy. She was a bit on the heavy side (which I thought made for the best, most cuddly hugs) with long grey hair that she wore up with tons of bobby pins. She always wore a floral bib apron with large pockets and she'd fill them with pears when we'd go to that special corner of our back yard. Oh the smell! Those yellow pears and the carpet of yellow leaves. Memories of Grammy Bradford brought back memories of Thelma Massenburg. She looked exactly like Aunt Jemima (OH FOR HEAVEN'S SAKES, we can't say Aunt Jemima anymore!) Recently a friend told me he'd made pancakes and I asked what kind of syrup he used. When he said, "Pearl Milling," I thought it sounded kinda cool, but when I looked it up I found out it was the new name for Aunt Jemima syrup. SERIOUSLY? Anyway, she was wonderful. She cleaned our house, scrubbed the floors and walls and worked harder than anyone I'd ever seen. I loved her. She always wore a bandana tied around her head. She lived in a tiny reddish tar papered house with ten children. Who knows where they all slept! She was diabetic and I was a little stinker and liked to tease her with Hershey Bars. I'd wave one in front of her nose and she'd smile and say," "You bad, chile." The last time I saw her she was in the hospital and her eyes were very, very yellow. Liver disease. The scarf that was always wrapped around her head was gone and I am sure that I could hear her say, "You bad, chile," although she probably didn't. Thank you my sweet Thelma. My Aunt Jemima.
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