V.K. Springs's Blog

February 22, 2012

My Hero.
The other night my husband and I went to a birthday party. With cocktail in hand, I wondered from group to group visiting with people from all walks of life.

Stopping at one group of ladies, the conversation turned to our childhood heroes. The woman we admired and wanted to grow up to be.

One after another brilliant woman were mentioned, Margret Thatcher, Eleanor Roosevelt, Helen Keller, Maya Angelou, Rosa Parks, Sandra Day O Connor.

When attention turned to me, I have to admit I almost submitted to the peer pressure; I took another drink of my whiskey. "When I was little, the women I wanted to grow up to be were, Samantha from bewitched, Jane from the Tarzan movies, Ginger and Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, and Elle May from the Beverly Hillbillies."

One very kind woman tried to save my reputation, "I think we all have had our fantasies of swinging through the jungle against the chest of a He man."

Nodding I smiled, "Yes I am very lucky."

Lucky? Another woman asked.

"Yes, I live in an off grid cabin in the woods like Elle May, secluded from civilization like Ginger and Mary Ann, and I may not be able to turn someone into a toad but I do practice a bit of my own magic."

Before I could finish my husband swopped in and lifted me over his shoulder, turning me around so I could say my good-byes. Hanging upside down, I lifted my head and smiled, "Best of all I grew up and found my He Man."
With one last wave to my new friends, he carried me out the door.

On the way home, I got to thinking about my heroes. Curious, I asked my love, "When you were little, who were your heroes, who did you want to grow up to be?

A sweet smile crossed his lips, and without hesitation he answered. "Superman."
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Published on February 22, 2012 13:36 • 209 views • Tags: bewitched, growing-up, hero, heroes, superman, tarzan

January 17, 2012

Organizing things is a personal experience, how we organize things makes perfect sense to us but to the people around us it might seem almost chaotic. I'll give you an example, In our attic, I have the things I use every few months closest to the door, the things I use once a year, Canning jars that kind of thing further back, and the things that I'm saving for sentimental reasons but will never really used again are in the furthest back corner.

Today my husband went looking for our snow boots, and for some reason he thought that I would put them in the furthest darkest corner of the attic, after an hour he came down, shaking his head, and no boots.

What I found when I went up was that every box was torn open, as if I would stash snow boots in boxes marked Family Photos, or Fragile Christmas Decorations.

Then something caught my eye, a three ring binder, so old that the college rule paper had turned translucent, and the blue ink could be read clearly from the back of each page. Close to 150 hand written pages, all scrawled out, as only a twelve year old middle school student can write.

My first novel. The first love story I ever wrote.

Forgetting about the snow boots I am now snuggled in my favorite chair reading The Bootleggers Daughter

I cannot wait to see how my 12 year old self-described making love or better yet what she thought would make a romantic relationship.
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Published on January 17, 2012 08:45 • 112 views • Tags: first-writing, vk-springs

November 9, 2011

Imagination a dying art.

I was visiting with two mothers the other day, they were both lamenting the busy schedules their children had, between school, homework, chores at home, soccer, wrestling, swim meets, their children were going from morning to night, everyday of the week.

Being the innocent I am, I asked the obvious question. Why do you have them enrolled in so many activities?

Both mother looked horrified, at my naivety, in calm voices they explain to me “That it is very important that children kept busy, that children who get board, get into trouble, end up in gangs, and then prison.”

I did not know!

When I was growing up. When we got board, our imaginations took over. We built forts, fought bad guys, were the hero’s of our own lives. We made up stories in our heads; we sang songs that we made up as we went along. We invented games, toys, and all kinds of new mousetraps. We read a book for the pure joy of sitting in the sun, and escaping to magical islands; we climbed trees and discovered darkest Africa. We were nurses and doctors to our dolls; we were Bonnie and Clyde, Jessie James. We were wonder woman cat woman sometimes even the bionic woman.

We sat in empty boxes and took long drives across the country when we got board of driving, our vehicle would turn into an airplane, and we would glide over the cities and through the clouds. We were Ginger or Mary Ann trapped on an island with four men who did not have a clue. We were mommies and daddy’s playing house. We were astronauts, with an Indiana Jones twist. We were firefighters, and police officers, we were ballerinas, and race car drivers.

Now did we get in trouble Yes, I broke my arm on one of my expedition to Africa. Climbing into the canopy, I slipped, falling to earth in my backyard. I twisted my ankle, skinned my knees, and cut my finger, I broke my mother’s best dishes making mud pies I let the dog chase the cat, I did not clean my room, I broke the window bouncing on the bed. I did not come when my mother called me, and I intentionally got my new cloths dirty,

I got punished for being mean, for not being polite, for talking back, for throwing rocks, I got spanked for teasing the neighbor girl, and for kicking my sister (in the head) I got sent to my room, for tantrums, and for being a brat.

When I left the two mothers, they were very content sharing their misery. As I came to my car, I saw that the rain had left a large mud puddle in front of the driver side door. I looked at it.

Then deliberately and with full force, I jumped as high and hard as I could into the very middle. The cold water splashed up my nylons and soaked my new high heels. My black skirt had little drops of brown mud splatter across the butt, raising my arms into the air; I was impressed that my high diving skills were still so honed.

Opening the door, I slide behind the wheel of my car and whispered “carpet up.” I was content.

Maybe kids are different today.
That thought made me a little sad.
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Published on November 09, 2011 10:11 • 116 views • Tags: imagination, kids, playing, vk-springs