Nancy Miller Barton

 

http://texaslifestylemag.com/foodie-friday-citywide-86d-round-three/

I just want some grass. Is that so much to ask? Not the kind you smoke. No no. My dream is much simpler. I want a green yard. A lawn. The kind of grass you walk through, sit on to read a book, or watch the kids spin-around-in- circles in. But apparently I now live in a desert. Austin Texas is becoming increasingly arid making my dream ever more elusive.

There are many dreams to dream. Write the next great American Novel (that’s quickly adapted to a screenplay). Invent the self-cleaning bathtub. Or, have a personal “pause” button so I can truly think before I speak. But for now the dismal grass situation in my front yard is frankly all the goal I can gather. It’s an irritant. Like the lion with the thorn in his paw or a person with a seed stuck between denture and gum. Like those poor souls I am left immobile.

Continue reading “Hardly High Times” →

There was a reason this simple chant meant power for generations of children. Sadly, the rhyme seems to have faded from memory. Sure, words can pack a punch — they can do a lot of good, they inform, they delight, and yes, they can even do damage — but verbal punches are far different from violence. The kids had it right. I took this “selfie” on the day of the attack on the Charlie Hebdo offices in Paris.

 (Editor’s note: This reflection on religion was written as prompt for a writing class exploring your life, your history. It contains my own small thoughts. It is in not a broad statement on religion and most certainly I do not wish to offend. It is simply part of my own faith “journey.” My ruminations. Thank you!)

It was early by Saturday morning standards, about 7:30, and I had to do something I hate having to do — wake a sleeping child. Okay, in the scheme of things it’s not that awful, especially when the aforementioned child is 12-years-old.

“Rise and shine sleepy head!” I said.

“Grumble. Grumble, “ and this — even from the sweetest of children!

“Up. Up. Up!!   Middle school youth group retreat at church today!”

You can imagine the response.

“I don’t want to go. It’s ALL day!  What? They’re having Mass too?  Boring!”

In the Catholic Church we are filled with what seems like an exhaustive list of “need-tos” and “have-tos.” No eating an hour before Mass. No meat on Fridays during lent. Missing Holy Days of Obligation is a sin. But this one, a chance to meet with other 11-13 year olds and some super-cool-high-school-kids who’ve already made that middle years treacherous trek, seemed to fit in the list of “shoulds.” You should go ‘cause it’s good for you. Especially since we haven’t been so good about the “have-tos” lately.

So I sat down on the edge of the bed, gathered my most mature mom-like thoughts and said,

“We don’t know what road we’ll have to go down in life. We have many paths to choose on that road map. It can be hard to know which way to turn, so sometimes we need direction. Think of Church, of God, as our compass.”

From under the blankets I hear, “Don’t need a compass.  My life has GPS!”

Continue reading “Life’s Compass” →

The letter is dated October 19 1918.  The salutation reads “My Dear ‘Al’.”  It’s typewritten on company stationary and heartbreakingly pleading. The letter is sent from Boston Massachusetts, presumably to the front lines during World War I.  The writer, William McCallum, urgently wants news about his brother, Hurlbert, who he writes was “seriously wounded in action on September 24th, 1918.”  McCallum tries to piece together the story of what happened oceans away.  He asks Al, “Please try to tell me where and when he was injured, how he was injured, that is, was he shot or gassed or what and if shot where he was shot, that is what part of his body.”  He continues with the logistics, “Where he is now, that is, in what hospital and in what city or town?”  But the underlying hurt is wrenching.

With nearly 100 years distance from the day William rolled the paper into his typewriter to pound out the letter on his keys, it would be easy to have the whole thing seem antiseptic, but it’s just not.  The simplicity of his request is heartbreaking. McCallum closes his “dear Al” letter with, “Write this information to me, and not to Hurlbert’s mother.” I found this letter among some old papers and photos my dad has saved over many years.  His father was “Al” in the letter.  Albert Miller, the man William McCallum hoped would reassure him with news that his brother Hurlbert was safe.  He was hoping for good news to calm their mother.  Why in all the things to make the journey from 1918 to today was this letter saved? Continue reading “Letter To The Front” →

The best part of life may be the people we encounter along the way.

Teens just being, well, teens —  at the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo (March 2014).