It seems appropriate on my birthday that I should try putting into words something profound, worthy, or at least, something that speaks to me. After all my years of massaging words—promising high school journalist, English major and graduate student, teacher, writer of business communications ad nauseum—I’ve had plenty of practice.
Many years ago, when I was a relatively new teacher, an important theory relating to writing appeared, once again, in school textbooks. Simply put, “show, don’t tell”. Don’t tell me that the soap on the kitchen counter smelled really fragrant. It happened to me in my great Uncle Henry and Aunt Stella’s kitchen. The counter was covered in faux marble linoleum, fashionable for the late 1940s-early 50s. The soap dish held Lifebuoy, a fragrance that smelled distinctly clean. I was sitting at the kitchen table, apparently expected to wait for something to happen, what I do not remember. Maybe I was just being quiet and attentive. Maybe I felt intimidated having been left alone at their home. Perhaps from that same visit, I can call up images of the iron beds and wardrobes arranged sparely on linoleum-clad Texas pine floors and the windows raised high, allowing sheer curtains to flutter in the breeze on cool spring nights.
At times when I feel inclined to let my fingers do the talking, I am reminded of Eliza Doolittle’s wonderful frustrations put to music, courtesy of Lerner and Lowe, from MY FAIR LADY. “Show me,” she exclaims:
Words! Words! Words! I'm so sick of words!
I get words all day through;
First from him, now from you!
Is that all you blighters can do?
On this birthday, I am waiting out the morning and an invitation to drive down to Huntsville with my oldest sister Joan and my Aunt Edna, who was married to Mother’s only sibling. Virtually everyone is gone, as in gone, no longer part of the world we know. When I was six Aunt Edna and Uncle Bubba gave me the sterling and gold western buckle with my name, Harold Hollis, engraved in the gold ribbon that adorns the lower portion of this two-include square piece of art. I wear it almost daily. She is just about all that remains of the previous generation from the first 64 years of my life. Only Aunt Mary, one of Daddy’s sisters, who turned 90 on September 2nd, a birthday that my mother missed by only eight months this same year, remains from the Hollis siblings. Birthdates: Mary Louise Hollis Todd (9-2-17), Tena Elizabeth Fuchs Hollis (9-9-17), Russell Harold Hollis (9-16-43). Mother’s heart gave out. Aunt Mary’s mind is giving out.
The year 2007 has been especially tough for our family. I’m telling you that, perhaps showing it as well without realizing. What I’m not telling you about is all the growth that is also a part of this year. We’re changing, sometimes sad, sometimes frustrated, at times resentful and angry, other times overwhelmed, and probably the most damaging of all, at times afraid. At times my heart is filled with hope, and always with thanks. In spite of the emptiness and loss washing over me on the first birthday I have to celebrate with out my Mother, it’s my 64th, and I choose to make the best of it.
Eliza’s song about making love count, a paen to carpe diem really, is filled with hope-tinged determination. Odd, perhaps, that love characterized by physical fire would be juxtaposed against loss and nostalgia associated with the loss of a family loved one, especially one’s Mother. Who teaches us first about love? And who understands the wounded heart we experience along the way? What better definition of hope than love in action!
Don't talk of stars burning above;
If you're in love, Show me!
Tell me no dreams filled with desire.
If you're on fire, Show me!
Here we are together in the middle of the night!
Don't talk of spring! Just hold me tight!
Anyone who's ever been in love'll tell you that
This is no time for a chat!
Haven't your lips longed for my touch?
Don't say how much, Show me! Show me!
Don't talk of love lasting through time.
Make me no undying vow. Show me now!
Sing me no song! Read me no rhyme!
Don't waste my time, Show me!
Don't talk of June, Don't talk of fall!
Don't talk at all! Show me!
Never do I ever want to hear another word.
There isn't one I haven't heard.
Here we are together in what ought to be a dream;
Say one more word and I'll scream!
Haven't your arms hungered for mine?
Please don't "expl'ine," Show me! Show me!
Don't wait until wrinkles and lines
Pop out all over my brow,
Show me now!
Show, Don’t Tell
R. Harold Hollis—Normangee, Texas (September 16, 2007)
Many years ago, when I was a relatively new teacher, an important theory relating to writing appeared, once again, in school textbooks. Simply put, “show, don’t tell”. Don’t tell me that the soap on the kitchen counter smelled really fragrant. It happened to me in my great Uncle Henry and Aunt Stella’s kitchen. The counter was covered in faux marble linoleum, fashionable for the late 1940s-early 50s. The soap dish held Lifebuoy, a fragrance that smelled distinctly clean. I was sitting at the kitchen table, apparently expected to wait for something to happen, what I do not remember. Maybe I was just being quiet and attentive. Maybe I felt intimidated having been left alone at their home. Perhaps from that same visit, I can call up images of the iron beds and wardrobes arranged sparely on linoleum-clad Texas pine floors and the windows raised high, allowing sheer curtains to flutter in the breeze on cool spring nights.
At times when I feel inclined to let my fingers do the talking, I am reminded of Eliza Doolittle’s wonderful frustrations put to music, courtesy of Lerner and Lowe, from MY FAIR LADY. “Show me,” she exclaims:
Words! Words! Words! I'm so sick of words!
I get words all day through;
First from him, now from you!
Is that all you blighters can do?
On this birthday, I am waiting out the morning and an invitation to drive down to Huntsville with my oldest sister Joan and my Aunt Edna, who was married to Mother’s only sibling. Virtually everyone is gone, as in gone, no longer part of the world we know. When I was six Aunt Edna and Uncle Bubba gave me the sterling and gold western buckle with my name, Harold Hollis, engraved in the gold ribbon that adorns the lower portion of this two-include square piece of art. I wear it almost daily. She is just about all that remains of the previous generation from the first 64 years of my life. Only Aunt Mary, one of Daddy’s sisters, who turned 90 on September 2nd, a birthday that my mother missed by only eight months this same year, remains from the Hollis siblings. Birthdates: Mary Louise Hollis Todd (9-2-17), Tena Elizabeth Fuchs Hollis (9-9-17), Russell Harold Hollis (9-16-43). Mother’s heart gave out. Aunt Mary’s mind is giving out.
The year 2007 has been especially tough for our family. I’m telling you that, perhaps showing it as well without realizing. What I’m not telling you about is all the growth that is also a part of this year. We’re changing, sometimes sad, sometimes frustrated, at times resentful and angry, other times overwhelmed, and probably the most damaging of all, at times afraid. At times my heart is filled with hope, and always with thanks. In spite of the emptiness and loss washing over me on the first birthday I have to celebrate with out my Mother, it’s my 64th, and I choose to make the best of it.
Eliza’s song about making love count, a paen to carpe diem really, is filled with hope-tinged determination. Odd, perhaps, that love characterized by physical fire would be juxtaposed against loss and nostalgia associated with the loss of a family loved one, especially one’s Mother. Who teaches us first about love? And who understands the wounded heart we experience along the way? What better definition of hope than love in action!
Don't talk of stars burning above;
If you're in love, Show me!
Tell me no dreams filled with desire.
If you're on fire, Show me!
Here we are together in the middle of the night!
Don't talk of spring! Just hold me tight!
Anyone who's ever been in love'll tell you that
This is no time for a chat!
Haven't your lips longed for my touch?
Don't say how much, Show me! Show me!
Don't talk of love lasting through time.
Make me no undying vow. Show me now!
Sing me no song! Read me no rhyme!
Don't waste my time, Show me!
Don't talk of June, Don't talk of fall!
Don't talk at all! Show me!
Never do I ever want to hear another word.
There isn't one I haven't heard.
Here we are together in what ought to be a dream;
Say one more word and I'll scream!
Haven't your arms hungered for mine?
Please don't "expl'ine," Show me! Show me!
Don't wait until wrinkles and lines
Pop out all over my brow,
Show me now!
Show, Don’t Tell
R. Harold Hollis—Normangee, Texas (September 16, 2007)
1 comment:
Happy Birthday Harold!! I wish you an abundace of joy and peace as you live your dream.
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