Letters from Lezlie Word Tyson

I’ve always wanted to keep a journal, but it never lasts over a couple of days. I think part of the reason I fail is that I get too busy, miss a night or two, and then it is gone. That would be a pretty lame excuse, though. It’s not like I don’t see that book sitting there…waiting for me to engage with it. No, I think the real reason I have never been able to journal (and am so reluctant to blog) is that I lose my “voice” when I try to write naturally.

I mean, I work on voice as I write my novels, but this kind of voice should be my own–just me–no worrying over sentence structure, vocabulary, the flow of it all. It should be just like listening to me talk. But it isn’t. I can’t help myself. I have to “fix” it. Friends tell me I lapse back into a fairly strong southern accent when I am back in my home county and just relax. I think they’re probably right. I can’t bring myself to write it, though.

My mother could. A couple weekends ago I found a journal she kept in September-October of 1996, the first eight weeks or so of my dad’s retirement. I don’t know why she started it or why she didn’t keep it up, but I wish I had more of it. Momma wrote just the way she talked. It makes it so easy to hear her.

Sweetest Day, October 19, 1996

Lezlie called and had me go over to her house and go shopping with her at Clarksville. We went to Captain D’s to eat. I had coupons I wanted to use. We had a good time we bought everything. There was a Flea Market at the old Sears store & we went. I got the cutest picture frames and some Christmas gifts. I got me a watch and some antique jewelry. Lezlie bought me a bracelet with thread, thimble, and sewing machine on it. We went to Walmart and bought several things and Lezlie got some cute Christmas ornaments. She stayed home tonight but she got gas yesterday [propane. I had been staying with them since I was out.] Lezlie left me at Cleghern’s so I could get some things I needed and she went to see Mama.

See what I mean? She had titled it “Sweetest Day” and it was no more than one of, I guess, fifty shopping trips we had taken. Perhaps it was one of those times she realized that I was growing up and we were about to enjoy an adult mother/daughter relationship. She was looking forward to that, and so was I. Unfortunately, I lost her not quite five years after this journal; I had just turned 29. We were cheated a bit in that, I believe.

I wish I had more of an insight to her life as she would have written it…everyday trips and tasks, her thoughts, her fears, her joys. I long to hear her voice. I want to be a fly on her wall.

I am reminded this weekend as I reflect upon the twelfth anniversary of my mother’s passing how fortunate I was to have a loving, caring mother. She supported me in all of my endeavors–even though I chose teaching instead of writing as my day job–and was always there to help me when I needed her. From painting all summer in my first classroom to cutting out laminated fraction “burgers,” she was actively involved in my life. She was proud that I was a teacher and loved reading the notes my students left for me.

I miss her.

I cannot calculate the number of times that I have reached for the phone in that split second that I forget I cannot speak to her directly. Most of what I need from her is quite simple and in the great scheme of things terribly unimportant–but I need it just the same. Just to tell her about a lesson that went well, a new Christmas ornament at Hallmark, wallpaper border that I’ve picked out…I can go on for hours. It’s the little stuff that really counts, isn’t it? The day-to-day trivial conversation is missed the most.

You know, I don’t really cry about Mother as much as I used to, but when it hits, it’s bad. Last weekend, my sister and I were cleaning some at the farm (our home) and both lost it when we opened a little bag that had Mom’s hair rollers in it. So sneaky. They just popped out and hit us with that loss all over again. As crazy as it sounds, I can’t throw them away.

Now, I realize that I don’t need “things” to keep my parents near me; they live on in my heart and in my sister Ginger. I see them in her every day in all that she is…beautiful, intelligent, honorable. We are the legacy, not the stuff they left behind. Yet, I feel close to them when I am home. It is those memories that draw me closer to the farm and its solitude.

I thought of Mother this morning as I sat down at the computer to continue working on the revision of the first book in the Intents series, Provoke Not the Children. She was reading an early draft when she passed away; the bookmark is still in the binder. It had taken quite a few friends to convince her to read it because she was worried that people would think I was writing from experience and not imagination (plus an important interview.) In fact, she had forbidden me to let anyone read it after she picked up a few pages to read while I was working on it. What was the problem, you ask?

Child abuse. Abuse both physical and emotional. Hurtful language. A cruel father and weak mother. In short, everything that my life was not. I suppose the problem was that it was written so realistically that people might wrongfully assume I had experienced it firsthand. It was her fear, and to be perfectly honest, mine, too.

So, as I put the finishing touches on my revisions and prepare to send it to my editing friends, I think of her. Her unfailing love for me. Her sacrifices. My father’s tenderness toward his wife and daughters and their respective love for him. I remember how very lucky I was and thank God for the blessing.

Well, tonight I have joined the world of bloggers. I am uncertain where this shall lead, but I think it may satisfy those writing needs when I am caught between novel scenes or needing an escape from them. Sometimes I find a piece of Scripture that I feel I need to share with someone, or maybe just a passing thought that seems worthwhile to record. Who knows? I guess that’s what blogging is all about. Just writing what is on your heart at the time. Well. We’ll see where this takes us.