Hello – I’ve been remiss in posting. Life has a way of interrupting things sometimes. But I came across this blog post today and thought it was cheerful and hopeful as winter continues to blast many regions in North America. I love my hummingbirds and believe this is the best way to get these little sweeties to our yard rather than using the sugar water in feeders, which need to be changed often and attract those pesky red fire ants in the South. Enjoy!
Greetings everyone…Spring has finally arrived and I couldn’t be happier. I still have a long wait before I can actually harden off my plants, and I am eagerly awaiting that day!
North of Gainesville, a church camp once attracted thousands of visitors because it was built around the gushing waters of Hornsby Springs. Then the spring stopped flowing and the camp had to spend m
I called it the “dam trip,” and dragged my husband along. Labor Day didn’t mean we had to work–me at my computer writing and Robert in his garden gardening–and besides, the day held the promise of perfect weather. Temperature in the seventies, cloudless sky, and a slight breeze all indicated to me it was time to do something in nature. Kayaking was out because of some back pain for Robert. The next best thing? A dam drive in the Smokies.
Three major dams in western North Carolina provide power for the TVA all within forty miles of one another. The drive took us through towering mountains as the road hugged the shores streams, rivers, and lakes. But one stop at Yellow Creeks Falls did more to restore my faith and hope in mankind than viewing breathtaking vistas.
We hadn’t brought our walking sticks for hiking, something we always do here in the mountains. We started out on the short hike to the small falls, and the path was rocky and narrow. A young couple came toward us, and I pulled up next to a tree to let them pass. He carried a walking stick, and I said. “I wish I’d brought my walking stick,” and nodded to his.
“Here–take this one,” the young man said.
“No, no. That’s fine.” I was sorry I’d made my thought public.
“No,” he insisted, “I don’t need it anymore. It’s yours. I just made it.”
He handed it to me. The stick had been stripped of its bark with one end sharpened into a point. Then he walked on leaving me with his work of art and a much appreciated implement for me to use on the rest of the hike.
Nothing on our dam trip came close to inspiring me more than one young man’s kindness on the waterfall trail. I brought the stick home. It will be my reminder to pay it forward at every opportunity.
The dam trip renewed me. The young man whose path crossed mine gave more than just a piece of wood he found near the Yellow Creek Falls.
I’m feeling nostalgic today as I honor the anniversary of my father’s death, which occurred on August 29, 1981, sometime around the noon hour. It was a beautiful late summer day in Michigan. The morning had been cloudy but when I stepped outside into the backyard at my parent’s home moments after he took his last the breath, the sun came out from behind the clouds and the child I carried in my womb moved inside of me for the first time. Thirty-six years disappear when I remember that day and when I remember my father.
I spent much of my time this summer compiling a collection of essays that represent my writing life over the past two decades when I began my writing career. It began with the publication of an essay about my mother’s hands six months after her death in 1998.
On September 5, 2017, Eclectic Leanings–Musings from a Writer’s Soul will be released on Amazon.
The Introduction to the book explains why I decided to publish my nonfiction (and several short stories) writings.
Excerpt from Eclectic Leanings
Eclectic Leanings spans the length of my professional writing career. Most of the pieces were published in newspapers, magazines, and blogs from 1998-2017. For years, I wrote a column for small newspapers and regional magazines in Florida. Many of the essays come from my column, Another View, which won several awards. In 2012, I began writing several blogs, and many of those pieces also appear in this book.
Recently, while packing to move, I came across all my saved clippings. Many of them were only in hardcopy and hadn’t been saved electronically. I decided saving yellowing newsprint and fading magazines not only created more boxes to move, but it was a very unstable way to save some of my life’s work. Eclectic Leanings seemed to perfect way to preserve a digital copy of my nonfiction works. I hope readers enjoy a book where they can pick and choose to read whatever might be of interest.
I’ve also dabbled with short story writing over the years, so I’ve included a few of those that have survived. Unfortunately, several that I wrote twenty years ago are missing from my collection. Perhaps they will surface one day.
When I published my great grandfather’s Civil War journal several years ago, I realized the importance of recording our histories. His journal—which covers only three years of his life—and one photo are all that remain of this man. I have even less from his son, my grandfather. And I sorely yearn to know more about all my relatives. There is even less from my female ancestors.
It has been said that when a person dies, a library burns down. While this book is not my autobiography, it does give an indication of my beliefs, values, and passions. It represents one wing of the library of my life. I hope you’ll consider leaving behind a portion of your life’s library. Your progeny will be the beneficiaries.
If you should find even one of the offerings within these pages worth the read, I will be grateful. It has been a pleasure to put together Eclectic Leanings, which is truly a testament to my love of language and its power to express a gamut of emotions and portraits of life.
Patricia Camburn Zick, 2017
The book contains stories about my family, and in particular, essays about the life and death of my father, my first hero. Here’s one I wrote for my newspaper column on Father’s Day in 2002.
REMEMBERING MY FATHER NOT AS SUPERHERO, BUT AS A MAN
Published in The High Springs Herald, June 13, 2002
My father never leaped over tall buildings.
But he would have tried if I had asked him, and two decades after his death, he remains a hero to me.
But when I think of my father, even today, it is tinged with sadness because only in his dying moments did he come to the realization that what he had right in front of him made him a success in the eyes of those who mattered most.
In the days before his death, he knew he had only a short time left with us, and he made the most of those hours. He called my four brothers and me, along with his wife of forty-three years, into the dining room we had converted into his bedroom. The room, not more than nine-by-ten feet, could barely contain the hospital bed and the accoutrements of a dying man, let alone my tall brothers.
But he wanted us there, and he wanted us to touch him. All of us. I stood at the foot of the bed with one of my brothers. When my father saw us there, he lifted his head from the pillow with difficulty.
“You two down there, grab my big toes,” he commanded.
He then told us that he loved us all and always had. But he said he wished the rest of the family could be there. And he meant our spouses and his grandchildren. The only grandchild present that day was the one I carried inside of me, barely visible during the fourth month of my pregnancy.
I found out I was pregnant exactly one week after we found out my father had liver cancer. My first husband and I had been married only a year and hadn’t planned to start a family quite yet. But that was not to be.
In fact, I thought my nausea when my father received his death sentence was the result of my great sorrow as I contemplated losing my father, the first man in my life and in my heart.
The day I found out I was pregnant, we drove to the hospital immediately to give my father the news. He didn’t say too much but right after we told him, his cousin walked in the door.
“I’m going to have a granddaughter,” he told her.
From that moment on, I never considered that I was carrying anything but a little girl inside my womb. I told my father one day during his last summer—one month before he died—that I had picked out the name for the baby.
“We’re going to name her Anna, after your mother,” I said.
His eyes filled with tears, and he turned his head away from me. “I never cared for any girl’s name but Patricia Ann.” My name. And that was the last he ever talked about my pregnancy and his seventh grandchild.
At first, I was hurt by his refusal to talk about my child. But then I realized that my father’s refusal came from the very simple fact that he knew he would never see my daughter. He would be gone from this world before her birth.
After a few weeks in the hospital, we couldn’t bear walking into his room to find soiled sheets and food caked on his face, lying there all alone too weak to do anything. So, we decided to bring my father home to die. We took vacation time from our jobs, and we all stayed with our mother through his final weeks.
One day my father called me into the small room and asked me to read his favorite Psalm to him, the twenty-third. I needed help remembering, so I opened the Bible from his bedside table and began to read. I choked at times overcome with the beauty of the words and their meaning now that my father lay dying. When my voice faltered, my father’s voice came out strong and sure as he spoke the words from memory.
His pale face lay against the pillow, and with eyes closed, he said the Psalm in his old voice, the one before the cancer, the strong authoritative one. He gave me the strength to continue reading.
The year before, when I came home to tell my parents that I was getting married, they both hugged me and began talking excitedly about the wedding ceremony. I wanted to be married in my parents’ home in the garden where my mother grew flowers of extraordinary proportions.
My mother mentioned my father giving me away. And I, fresh out of college with newfound feminism beating on my consciousness, said, “I don’t belong to anyone. No one has the right to give me away.”
My father didn’t turn away fast enough for me to miss the bullet I shot through his heart. Never have I wished more that my tongue and brain worked in unison. However, I never regretted what I said on my next visit home.
“Dad, would you walk me out to the garden on my wedding day?” I asked.
My father never made a whole lot of money, and he never found a job that made him happy. But he always worked, and he kept a roof over our heads. And even though he slaved long hours for other people, he never forgot he was a father.
He attended every game my four brothers ever had a chance of playing during their high school years. And they played them all: football, basketball, and baseball. Some of them wore out the courts and fields, and others wore out the benches. But my father attended every game, home and away.
And while my brothers will say that my father spoiled me, I will say that I always had my father on my side. When I was sixteen, I took my father’s 1962 Chevy station wagon out for the evening. Even when I came in the house and told my father the car had four flat tires, he never got mad at me.
“Must have been bad tires,” he said. “You don’t know how it happened?”
“No, Dad. I just heard something funny about a block from the house,” I told him.
I didn’t lie. I just didn’t confess that an hour earlier, with fifteen friends stuffed into the back, we’d taken a joy ride through a recently harvested cornfield. He never questioned me again, and I never told.
But two years later when I got my first car, he took me out to the driveway before he would let me drive away.
“Open the trunk,” he commanded. “Now you’re going to learn to change your own tire.”
And I did.
My hero. He never flew through the sky or changed clothes in a phone booth, but he didn’t have to do those things. He just had to be my dad.
I believe the words of Elie Wiesel, author and winner of Nobel Peace Prize in 1986, are important to remember in light of the events of this past week.
When we made the big transition two years ago to leave Pittsburgh and move to the mountains during the summer and Florida for the winters, lots of decisions had to be made about what we kept and what we tossed. The hardest task for me personally came when I had to address the file cabinets and boxes filled with two decades of published writings.
For more than two decades, I’ve written either columns or blog posts and the major portion of those are not available electronically. I moved most of my archives, but as I hefted box after box of yellowing newsprint, I decided they would not be moved again except to my circular file, which is emptied every week.
I hadn’t done much of anything with those things until this summer after a visit home to Michigan where I presented the journal of my great grandfather to audiences interested in the Civil War and Michigan’s role in it. The only thing I have left of this man is his written word and one photograph. I have even less left by his son–my grandfather–who died in 1956.
So I’m typing madly to electronically keep a portion of my “library” as I compile many of the pieces into one book, Eclectic Leanings, Musings from a Writer’s Soul, which I hope to publish by summer’s end. Whether anyone buys it or not, I will have preserved a major part of my thoughts, values, and philosophy for my daughter and anyone else who wants to remember me after I’m gone.
Here’s one piece that I unearthed that I find relevant today. We are in danger of taking gigantic steps backward in the movement to end bullying if we don’t stop the cycle being set by those with a Twitter account and a lack of impulse control.
Published in The High Springs Herald, January 2001
The biggest lie from childhood: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. Hit me with a stick or throw a stone at me anytime rather than tell me that my face is ugly or my clothes are old or my mother wears army boots. Tell me those things, and I crumble.
Yet the insults and ridicule begin at a very young age whenever someone does something outside the norm of behavior. Where do we learn to insult one another for our differences? Does it come from somewhere deep inside our psyche, and is it so ingrained in our personalities that it begins with the acquisition of language?
Many times, we throw the slings and arrows of words to protect ourselves. They serve as a red herring for the soul, deflecting those slings and arrows from coming directly back at us. And so, we are taught the old adage about stick and stones in order to make ourselves tough and to let go of those insults. But how often do they really just roll off our backs? Those words pierce their way into our hearts and souls, leaving wounds. Some of us can heal those wounds over time; others never can.
The wounds which never heal become festering blisters of pain. And words serve, not as the sticks and stones of our childhood, but as the timber and boulders which threaten to come crashing down to smother us.
As I write this column, a young man of seventeen is hanging onto his life by a thread. One morning, he woke up and decided he no longer wanted to face the timber and boulders of his daily life at school because he was different. It doesn’t matter how he was different, but he was. And he was ostracized and ridiculed for it. He would hide it, deflect it, and strike back because of it. But finally, the struggle to do all of those things while still living the life of a teenager became too much, and he couldn’t face another day.
So he woke up that morning and decided he had had enough of his life. He swallowed four hundred Tylenol pills in an effort to end the pain and struggle. And for more than two weeks now he has lingered in and out of this world.
The repercussions sent out ripples, and the emotions come in waves of guilt. Other teenagers wondered if they could have done something for him while the adults wondered why they didn’t do something more. Hopefully, soon we will realize that we could have done nothing immediate to stop him from wanting to die. But maybe we can do something now to change the course of the future.
Still the insults continue as I go about my day as a teacher. The slingshots of words continue their banter across the classroom aisles, and I wonder how to stop it all. How do we stop years of learned behaviors where the standard for wit and attention resides on the yardstick of derision and ridicule?
We are a society founded on the tenets of individual freedom yet we have become something else in our struggle to protect the rights of a diverse people. We do not applaud the standard bearers or the trail blazers until they have made lots of cash from their achievement. Then we are ready to join the bandwagon as we erect statues to their heroism. This we do for the ones who can survive their differences. We put on pedestals those who are different only when they have achieved the status which we can appreciate in our little superficial souls.
As I struggle to put a positive light on a tragedy beyond human comprehension, I wonder how I can reach out to change this situation. How can we all finally figure out that words and language and actions have far more power than anything else? They have the power to kill and the power to heal.
Each morning when I rise I pray to be given the ability that day to say the right things. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t. The conscious effort on the part of us all to recognize and accept the differences of others, and the willingness to praise individuality instead of mocking it can go a long way in the process of changing our attitudes. The sticks and stones of our childhood can then be turned into something constructive from which we can build a structure with a strong foundation, relishing the differences which make us whole.
Author Note – I wrote this column seventeen years ago. My student survived and is now happily living his life with a partner and enjoying success in his career. His attempt at ending his life motivated me to leave teaching to pursue my passion. The opinion I expressed seems quite timely now. Campaigns against bullying were being implemented in schools. And then a man was elected as the President of the United States who conducts himself in times of adversity as the Bully-in-Chief. We must be vigilant and fight it because if the highest office in our country condones name calling and personal insults, then our job on the ground must be to conduct ourselves with the utmost care and kindness toward others. I pray we don’t sink to the low level of the high office of power.