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writings

Dialect Metaphor#
[created 8.12.04 and resurrected 8.10.04] My dialect is like an autumn day, perhaps October 19th or later.  My dialect is crisp like the snap and crackle of the fallen maple leaves I step on during my evening walks.  My dialect is chilly like the weather front that bringts a cold wind on its way to January riding on the back of a warm breeze on its way back to August.

Posted by Karen McComas on 8/10/05; 7:26:32 AM to the writings Department
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Turning Five#

I see two sisters, one red-head with freckles and one tow-head with no front teeth, who wear matching sweatshirts and shorts as they tumble out of Tabone's mint-green cottage in their bare feet. I hear the sea-gulls cry to the Great Lake symphony, conducted by the unpredictable weather patterns that sweep over the Big Water. I smell bacon and eggs in the cottage and fish at the picnic table. I think I am on a ship as I stand alone on the bluff, my family as far away as the wind can blow. I feel powerful and safe and free standing up against the wind and the water, five-years-old today.

Posted by Karen McComas on 8/9/05; 6:57:09 AM to the writings Department
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Living on a String#

Stand in Michigan and drop a string about three states long, I'm from that string. Skate around Northern Michigan on frozen lakes that connect Christmas tree farms, Slide down through Ohio, the place we call the Land of the Man Made Ponds (or Pond-sylvania, for short), and Cross the river into West Virginia where the stately trees line up on the steep mountainside like members of a choir with the sopranos in the front and center, the altos to the side, and the tenors and basses at the very top. I'm from somewhere on that string, part of here and part of there. But, if you ask me, I'll tell you that I'm from water, because it's what I knew first.

Posted by Karen McComas on 7/24/04; 7:13:41 PM to the writings Department
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