The forces that drive me to write a story seem to come upon me at any given time. Once in a while, the urge to write comes with such force that I get angry at myself for taking so long to get to my computer.

Other times I can be working in my garden, and a story comes to me with such force that it drives me into the house to get typing. Other times I can sit in front of a piece of paper, or a computer screen nowadays, and the only thing I get is a blank.

Then comes a long dry stretch that no writing is done at all. No stories seem to jump out at me. Nothing grabs hold and gets my mind to thinking. This is the worst of times for a writer of many years, as no matter how long one has written, no matter how many stories they have brought to life, it seems that doubt in one’s self has a way of creeping in and saying, “You haven’t written in a month or so. Have you lost your touch? Are you as good as all those around you say you are? Really?”

Then you finally become angry at yourself and complacent. You say to yourself, “No, my feelings are wrong,” but in thinking this, you still do not write. You don’t want to even think about writing.

When a glimmer of a story comes to mind after a spell, you put it to the back of your mind and try to forget that it has decided to show itself. You move on to other things, anything, anything at all, other than writing.

The thing is though, you know deep down in your heart that you are a writer. A writer that lets words become your master, knowing these words will never leave you alone. They are working hard through your mind to get you to start writing once again and do their bidding.

Then it happens. You feel that maybe, just maybe, you have a story or two to be told. You then have doubts, and for some, fear is allowed to creep into your mind, and for the next week you say to yourself, “Who are you trying to kid? You know you can write, just set yourself down and start typing.”

This you do, and once again nothing happens. You strive hard to come up with a story, but the words are all jumbled and not making sense. You try to get them together, changing their ways and ideas to what you think is right. Nothing happens, nothing takes place. The empty computer screen is all you see.

How many times has it happened to me I cannot say, too many to count. Finally, you start thinking about the past stories you have written. You look at them, then read one or two and decide in your own mind and say, “I can’t remember even writing them stories, but I must have, as here is the proof.”

Another day, or week, or month passes by, and then something miraculous happens. From out of nowhere an urge, small at the time, starts taking place in your mind. You feel that you are again… being called to doing what you do best. You sit down, relaxed, and bring up the screen. For no reason whatsoever, you just start writing, and what does one see?

Words flowing like water through a summer’s stream in front of you, each word making sense and meanings emanating from within, telling what needs to be said. You soon realize, as many times before, that you are a writer of words and you have to write. The words are what rule, not you. That’s the real truth, and soon you start to realize this once again. You are once again on the way to bringing to life another story.

Do I have many days like this? I surely do. I sometimes wonder at night while laying in bed who indeed writes the stories that my fingers put forth and bring to life. Seems when I get to writing, it could be ten in the morning and when the story is finished, so is the day. Unusual in itself how these episodes come forth, and many a time you could see me shaking my head in disbelief, wondering where the day went. Where was I? Who or what took my mind over, as it undoubtedly wasn’t I, for I have no remembrance of anything for the past few hours.

I honestly feel that there is more than one of me. I think that my characters enjoy toying with me, souls of others taking me into their world and using me to bring forth their messages, messages that they didn’t have time to tell or say when they were alive. Human or critters, it seems they all enjoy the vessel of my hands and use them to write whatever they choose.

So what makes a good writer the way he or she is? I would say this, which came to me one night through a vision.

A good writer is able to capture the souls of others, and in doing so, he then allows the souls to go about their work without envy or jealousy. In other words, a good writer enables the words to tell a good story all on their own, without compromising them with thoughts of his own.

Another vision came to me one night that was simply put, told me this:

“Thoughts that vanish in the darkness are never seen again.”

I have to say that is so true, as many a night I have laid there in the darkness with stories of fantastic meanings flowing through me, only to think that I would remember, and by not writing them down, they were lost forever.

Today I listen to what my visions say. I write each one down for future reference, as I now know that beyond this human form there is a force of energy much, much greater than any mind can conceive.

“It always surprises me how many things we used to hold onto that are now simply thrown away.”

On our farm, I can still picture twine being used to tie up the grapevines, which was done mostly by women. It seemed that women appeared to possess a special talent in this field that men, despite their best efforts, were unable to match.

It also required a lot of patience because the grapevine arms had to be raised and wrapped around the wires carefully so as not to break off the buds, and then tied securely.

Years ago, I would take large coils of twine we had bought and cut them into pieces that were between six and eight inches long. I sure cut a lot of twine in my day, now that I think about it.

Other ways we got twine was from the dairy farmers, as most of them back then had bales of hay, and the binder twine was used to hold the bales together.

The nice thing about it was that most farmers back then just discarded most of it. So when my Dad and I approached them, they were happy to let us have it.

We actually didn’t take it for nothing though, as being the way my old Dad was, he worked out a deal, trading some fruit for it.

For a while, things worked out quite well, and we had enough to tie a 100-acre farm each spring.

In time though, the twine was phased out, and they began using thin wire instead. Dad didn’t like it, because it had a tendency to cut into the vine, sometimes even killing it. In contrast to wire, which did not budge, twine yielded somewhat.

In the end, we had to be really careful not to tie them too tightly.

Another item that is pretty well gone now is wooden baskets. For years on our farm, we used to buy up thousands of them.

Nothing was wrong with them, other than maybe having the wrong name—and we fixed that with a coat of paint. Once the old name was covered up, we simply stamped our own name on them. It worked well for a lot of years until the Powers That Be stopped us, saying it was unsanitary. Can you imagine that? What’s so unsanitary about wooden baskets that have stood the test of time?

Today, people have been convinced to switch to paper baskets, which are only used for a season, if even that long, before being discarded. It’s a wasteful practice that troubles me a lot. Unfortunately, many minds have been influenced in ways that I believe aren’t beneficial. It’s disheartening to think about all the waste that’s being generated today.

Another item on the list was old cement blocks. I remember the time when my Dad and I were building my first home years ago. We had just finished digging out the basement and were preparing to construct the walls when my Dad heard about a guy who had a large collection of used blocks.

Excited at the prospect of getting them at a discounted price, we went to check them out. To our surprise, there were hundreds of blocks, but the catch was that they were all of different sizes.

That didn’t stop Dad though. We backed up the truck and loaded them on.

Back at the building site, a good friend of ours got busy and started to lay them.

Finally, who knew that a bunch of mismatched blocks could make for such a sturdy building? It just proves that sometimes you have to think outside the box—or in this case, outside the block!

School days, school days, dear old golden rule days, reading, writing, and arithmetic taught to the tune of a hickory stick! That’s the way it was said… before they polished it up.
Those were the days, good ones too. Each day brought a treasure trove of memories.

My schooling began at age six in a one-room schoolhouse. No kindergarten, straight to grade one.

I remember the days leading up to my first day. My heart was a mix of excitement and worry. Scared, who wouldn’t be?

Laura, who raised me, packed my lunch in a paper bag. Later, Reg, her husband, bought me a tin lunch pail, with the Lone Ranger painted on it. Boy, was I proud of that.

But for my first day, I had a paper bag with sandwiches, an apple, a No. 2 pencil, a rubber, and a small notebook.

Entering the boys’ entrance, I was greeted by a woman teacher. I was seated with five other kids my age, all girls. Can you imagine that? Here I was, ready to make new friends, and what do I get? Girls.

Now, don’t get me wrong, girls are fine. I eventually married one. But on that day, I was hoping for boys to go fishing with, share secrets with, or eat lunch with.

A year later, a few boys joined, but they weren’t too friendly, they didn’t want to hang out with me, being so young.

The girls, though, were always there, pestering me, teasing me. Sometimes I hid at lunchtime to escape them.

Recess on my first day came mid-morning. Our playground was an old field. Off to one side were a few trees with swings, occupied by the girls. The boys were busy on an old baseball field, hitting balls and running bases.

Finding a cool spot under a tree, I sat down and took off my new shoes, as they were hurting my feet.

Off to the right, I spotted a big old bullfrog heading towards a stone fence. Figuring I had no boys to play with, I thought maybe the frog would welcome my company. But by the time I reached the fence, it had disappeared between the rocks. Darn, just when I thought I had a playmate.

When I returned to my shoes, the field was empty. Oh well, they must’ve gone for a walk in the woods. I put my shoes back on. Looking up, I saw my teacher marching towards me with a stern look.

“What do you think you’re doing out here, young man? Recess is over. Everyone’s back in school at their desks, where you should be.”

After a lecture on the rules, I was escorted back to the one-room schoolhouse by my ear. A memorable first taste of education.

At the end of the day, I stayed by her desk while she saw the others off. I thought I was in big trouble, but much to my surprise, when she returned, she gave me a hug.

“George,” she said, “I had to bring you in by your ear. Not to punish you, but because the older kids were watching. If I did nothing, they’d think they could get away with it. So, can we still be friends? Do you forgive me?”

“Sure, no problem,” I replied. “Didn’t hurt a bit. If it wasn’t for that darn frog, I’d have known recess was over, tomorrow, I’ll pay more attention.”

With that, she saw me off the school’s property, and I walked home, whistling away… feeling quite grown up.

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