stories :: Page 36 :: Small Pond Graphics

Archive for stories – Page 36

Courage 2010: The Post Behind the Post

· February 8, 2010

“If one is forever cautious, can one remain a human being?”
~ Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

Little Drummer Boy recently informed me that he is no longer afraid of Pinocchio. He received the Disney classic from G-Mo and Paw-T for his birthday last year. He got several movies as gifts, and it took us a while to get around to watching Pinocchio. LDB didn’t make it far into the story before he decided it was scary. We turned it off, put it out of sight and that was that.

Now, if you haven’t seen Pinocchio lately, let me indoctrinate you. There’s plenty for a four-year-old to find scary, and plenty to get me kicked out of the Mommy-of-the-Year running. It’s filled with all kinds of questionable activities: wooden boys coming to life, wiley fox hoodlums enticing boys away from school, child labor forced by one-toothed men, child slavery forced by seedy carnival producers, boys turning into donkeys, cigar smoking, lying, ferocious ship-swallowing whales, all those tick-tocking clocks while everyone’s trying to sleep, and the word “jackass.” Yep, plenty to instill trepidation.

So, through what I can only surmise was the influence of peer pressure, LDB announced that he was no longer afraid to watch the movie. “I promise,” he said. It sounds like maybe they watched the movie in his preschool class or read the book, and during that process of comraderie, he overcame his fear of growing donkey ears. That’s how it is with Little Drummer Boy. When confronted with a new and somewhat scary situation, his preference is to wait until he’s suddenly ready–until he grows more or forgets more or learns more, until he can partake effortlessly of the thing he can no longer remember frightened him. He just waits for the experience to sneak up on him.

Bug is different. I’m not actually sure Bug’s ever been afraid of anything, which makes ME lose a lot of sleep. He’s apt to put his whole tiny being into whatever presents itself, and caution has never been a barrier for him in making the experience completely his own. When we’re watching Pinocchio, there are a few parts that cause him concern, but they are often overcome by his desire to dance during the musical numbers that surround them. He might get up from his chair and run to the edge of the hallway, peeking around to see the upcoming scary scene from a safer distance. Or, he may run over and sit right next to me in anticipation of a frightening moment. He always continues watching, though. And, he’s somehow always able to overlook those troublesome scenes in favor of choreographing his dance moves for the next song. It’s courage, I tell you. And, I have a lot to learn.

There’s never been a time in this world when courage was needed more than today. It seems like more humans are in hunger than ever before. More in slavery. More in despair of governments and poverty and disease and court decisions. Yes, adequate courage is indeed wanted in nation building, but I’m realizing that just as profound a courage is wanted in basic human living. Can I really maintain myself as a human BEING if I am forever cautious about the being part? Of all the battlefields requiring valor in this day, perhaps the one most insistent is the battlefield of the ordinary, the daily living of life–living connected and engaged with all that such a life entails. That battlefield is the one where I’m required to BE the human being I am, staking claim to each moment with the courage to live it fully, and rescuing real, meaningful life from the abyss of complacency. No, there’s never been a time in MY life when courage was needed more. And, when I come to the end of it, I want to know that I’ve partaken of that courage and built that sustainable life beyond mere existence.

That’s the crux of my 2010 theme word pursuit. I started it with a quick Tuesday 25 last week, and the concept is in dire need of elaboration in the form of a post that’s been staring me in the face, unflinching, for several months now. Courage. I want to find it, to maintain it, to live by it in this one life with which I’m blessed. I want to apply it where the voids of hunger and hope for something more need filling. I want to adopt it where the constraints of routine need more freedom. I want to employ it where the chills of exposure need more covering. I want to speak with it where silence needs more breaking.

Yes, I have a lot to learn. From Little Drummer Boy. From Bug. From Pinocchio. I don’t want to spend my life waiting for the experience to sneak up on me at a time when I might be prepared to live it. To live a life unbounded requires courage–the courage to sit through the hard parts, to stand through them, to raise a fist at them, to grab someone’s hand through them, to run and hide from them, but to come back, to sneak a peek at them, to ask questions about them, to choreograph them and dance around them. I want to have the sheer audacity to move beyond existence. I want courage.

Categories : essays

The Act of Feeding

Posted by haley montgomery

· January 14, 2010

I’ve been thinking about the simple pleasure of preparing a meal. It’s an activity made even more poignant by the situation in Haiti this week. The earthquake calls into sharp focus just how devastatingly fragile the physical world is and how common our basic human needs are. In so many structures in Haiti, where there are no longer tables and chairs, or cabinets and walls, the simplicity of bread and water is magnified to a king’s meal. Why isn’t it so with every meal, especially those prepared in comfort? Yes, it’s hard to think about pork chops and placemats in the light of such a tragedy. Still, the simple pleasure of offering food around a table to ones dear to us is so much more astounding as I’m reminded of the multitude of neighbors in our hemisphere for whom that luxury has been displaced.

I usually like to cook. Sometimes it’s a quick, easy and totally gift-friendly meal of hot dogs, chicken nuggets, spaghetti or some other favorite that allows me to get in and out of the kitchen quickly. In my mind those meals offer only a nod of the head at cooking, but the experience is elevated simply by the presence of those around me. At other times I enjoy making a selection of dishes with more presence, ones based on special recipes or made from “scratch” rather than from some combination of boxes and bags. Those are the kinds of meals almost everyone has in some form or another. They are ones that say home or celebration or culinary success, birthed from familes and traditions, experiences or locales.

Some meals have “place”–like the one from Wednesday night that was unmistakeably Southern from its inception. Although they may have been modernized, the dishes have a context in memory or cooking method that speaks to my life in Mississippi. Corn bread was the first thing I made. My grandmothers made it in large iron skillets heated in the oven first and with handfuls of ingredients tossed and stirred without thinking. I make mine from the recipe on the Martha White Cornmeal package in a square metal pan. I could probably do it from memory if pressed, but I’ve never tested the theory. And, you barely miss the skillet’s influence when it’s warm with a dab of butter.

Macaroni and cheese was next on the menu, and although I’ve had my share of experiences with the blue Kraft box, I prefer to make it myself now–mainly because Bug asks for it. There’s nothing like the repeated requests of a 3-year-old to make you feel like a cooking rock star. I make my mac and cheese with a milk and egg mixture rather than a cheese sauce and layer the noodles with whatever combination of cheddar, swiss and parmesan I have available.

Honey-pecan pork chops were the main event, floured and cooked in butter on the stovetop. Yes, it’s about as heart-friendly as a can of Crisco, but still, it’s not every day. The frying recalls the way my Mom cooks chicken tenders or how my grandmother made deer steak as a child–lifting the edges of the meat with a fork to check the brownness, turning at just the right time, scraping the pan with a spatula. After the chops are cooked, the recipe calls for some measurement of pecans and honey which I can never remember. I just throw some in, and I’ve learned through hard experience and very hardened sugar to turn the eye down first. I like to add a splash of Worchestershire sauce in as well to give this semblance of a roulx a more savory taste.

There are a hundred other stories of recipes and dishes, various combinations with the appropriate green elements, sides, bread and fruit. Most moms and wives have them. And, every woman has her own preferred method and ideal environment for cooking for her family–the kitchen, the pots and pans, what happens to the used dishes and egg shells, the proclivity to use measuring spoons and the penchant for interaction. It’s an integral part of the process of feeding a family.

My kitchen is invariably a cacophony of sights and sounds and movement. The sights: A refrigerator and stovetop grease guard filled with children’s photos, finger paintings tucked behind spice racks and collections of utensils and momentos lining the counters in plain view. I just like to look at things while I’m cooking, while I’m living. One wall of cabinets with glass doors affords me the opportunity to see the vessels I enjoy–bowls and pottery, 50s pyrex I love, colorful plates of various sizes. The sounds: A thousand interruptions to start a movie, answer a question, referee a car chase, or retrieve a 15-month-old from the top of a table. Ocassionally there’s an attempted conversation with my husband from the rocking chair my grandmother gave me. The movement: Perpetual acts of wiping my hands on my pants, various dishes at different stages of completion and imperfectly timed to get on the table somewhere between 6:30 and 8:00pm, and always a flurried combination of preparation and clean-up all going on at the same time. The tasks are often accomplished around Baby Girl unloading the plasticware cabinet at my feet. These kitchen sensibilities are the evidences of time spent trying to elevate this ordinary daily activity to the honored place of extraordinary.

I am struck by the power of the simple act of feeding. In all its complicated cacophony, the individuality and habits found in my kitchen can raise that process of eliminating hunger to the level of celebration. If I embrace them. Somehow in that boiling and stirring and place-setting, I’m feeding more than stomachs and strong bones. I’m feeding healthy hearts and hungry spirits for those in my care. I’m meeting a basic human need we all have–nourishment for body and soul.

Some meals have “place”–like the one from Wednesday night that was unmistakably Southern from its inception. Although they may have been modernized, the dishes have a context in memory or cooking method that speaks to my life in Mississippi. Corn bread was the first thing I made. My grandmothers made it in large iron skillets heated in the oven first and with handfuls of ingredients tossed and stirred without thinking. I make mine from the recipe on the Martha White Cornmeal package in a square metal pan. I could probably do it from memory if pressed, but I’ve never tested the theory. And, you barely miss the skillet’s influence when it’s warm with a dab of butter.

My kitchen is invariably a cacophony of sights and sounds and movement. The sights: A refrigerator and stovetop grease guard filled with children’s photos, finger paintings tucked behind spice racks and collections of utensils and momentos lining the counters in plain view. I just like to look at things while I’m cooking, while I’m living. One wall of cabinets with glass doors affords me the opportunity to see the vessels I enjoy–bowls and pottery, 50s pyrex I love, colorful plates of various sizes. The sounds: A thousand interruptions to start a movie, answer a question, referee a car chase, or retrieve a 15-month-old from the top of a table. Ocassionally there’s an attempted conversation with my husband from the rocking chair my grandmother gave me. The movement: Perpetual acts of wiping my hands on my pants, various dishes at different stages of completion and imperfectly timed to get on the table somewhere between 6:30 and 8:00pm, and always a flurried combination of preparation and clean-up all going on at the same time. The tasks are often accomplished around Baby Girl unloading the plasticware cabinet at my feet. These kitchen sensibilities are the evidences of time spent trying to elevate this ordinary daily activity to the honored place of extraordinary.

Categories : beautiful ordinary, mother's heart, southern stories

A Boy and His Transformer

Posted by haley montgomery

· December 28, 2009

I bought my first Christmas gift in October — two, actually.

I’m not one of those early shoppers, but these two were necessary somehow. Little Drummer Boy and I were in Wal-mart looking for a meager prize befitting a 4-year-old in reward for something or another. As we rounded the corner of the car section, there it was. The Transformer Aisle. I tried my best to escape it, but LDB was mesmerized. Disney World has nothing on the Transformer Aisle in the eyes of a 4-year-old boy , at least not this particular one.

Among the multitude of Transformer options, I was amazed at how many LDB recognized and how much he knew about them. I must admit that my only frame of reference for Transformers is the big boy underwear LDB loves and the need to turn OFF the Super Bowl last January as a result of LDB seeing one of the movie advertising spots. Needless to say, that particular reference was a little unimpressive. But, apparently one of his preschool friends is the consummate authority on Transformers and had been kind enough to share that knowledge with my little guy. J’s tidbits of information and Quiver’s modern-day version of the 80’s favorite “more than meets the eye” were all the requirements of a full-fledged Transformer love. Apparently.

As it turned out, 12″ versions of the robots complete with sounds and movement and eyes that light up all blue and menacing when you push the buttons were conveniently located on the bottom shelf of Transformer Aisle. Thank you, Wal-mart and your mass marketing machine. The toys had Mommy red flags all over them. Mean voices, weapons of mass destruction, weapons of any kind, scary sounds. But, Little Drummer Boy was enamored. I let him know that they were too expensive for the “prize” we really came for and that I would think about them for Christmas. That’s all it took.

There were two transformers I vetoed right off the bat. They were all black with even weirder names and only mean monster-like sounds. I just couldn’t do it. But, I was more open to the other two. I guess LDB could tell because he began his sell pitch: “Please! Can we please, please get it for Christmas?” “They only kill bad guys.” “I won’t push the buttons.”– all very tranparent attempts to comply with Mommy’s toy idiosyncracies, while letting me know how much his heart was set on Transformers. I knew right away that this was a desire from which he would not be distracted. Time and distance from the Transformer Aisle would not squelch his memory or longing for these particular 12″ varieties.

It was the first toy Little Drummer Boy had ever really, really wanted–at least wanted for more than the ten minutes he was faced with the experience of being enticed by it. It was the first time it had actually registered in his mind that he might be getting presents for Christmas. We left the store with his hopes firmly in tact and my delimna brewing. LDB wanted something and I had the power to give it to him. Was there really anything else I needed to know?

Don’t you wish that’s how it always worked? Somebody wants something, and they have the audacity to ask for it, to actually articulate that desire, that need. I think the world might be a very different place if that’s how it most often happened. Unfortunately, it’s a little unusual for people in this world–the ones in my house, the ones in line at my Wal-mart, the ones in my InBox and in my neighborhood–to exercise the courage to say what they really want, what they really need. But, the reality is that hearts’ desires are often common between us at our most basic. It’s up to me to pay attention sometimes.

I’ve been thinking about gifts lately, it being the Christmas season and all. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the far-reaching impact of gifts given inspite of yourself and the responsibility borne by those who are gifted, which we all are. We all have a sphere of influence at our disposal. The question is whether we are willing to engage it. We all have the power to give gifts people we know (and those we don’t) really want. Mercy, freedom, shamelessness, forgiveness, absolution, courage, time, words, affirmation, attention, kindness, love. They are gifts relatively easy to give, if I don’t mind giving myself.

The gift of myself is the most natural one of all, but so often like those Transformers, I must do it inspite of myself, inspite of my own idiosynchracies, my own self-absorption, my own hang-ups and hot-button issues, my own needs. I’m learning slowly but surely that it can be done. If I’m willing.

Back to October. Little Drummer Boy’s questions and hopes remained alive. He must have asked me fifty times a day, every day: “Can we just go LOOK at the Transformers?” “After tomorrow will it be Christmas?” “Can I please get those Transformers for Christmas?” The next week I went to Wal-mart on my lunch hour to buy my first Christmas presents. A twelve inch wing-spreading, trash-talking “Optimus Prime” AND a yellow bad-to-the bone “Bumblebee” Transformer. Wrapped in plastic bags, they found a place on the top shelf of our storage closet.

Fast forward to Friday, Christmas Day. I love the moment of truth on Christmas morning when my gifts get to see all the presents I’ve chosen for them and through much love (and a little frustration) unpackaged and carefully arranged for their wonder. When Little Drummer Boy rounded the corner of the couch and saw his particular stack, the shiny, red bicycle was completely lost as his smiling expression mouthed, “the Transformers.” He just turned around and looked at me. Then, before even approaching the gifts, he stopped to give me a hug and say “I love you, Mommy.” He hasn’t stopped pushing the buttons and banging their heads together since.

Yep, I caved. To mass marketing, to total boy-dom, to overpriced merchandise, to fighting robots, to epic battles and impending doom. I completely gave myself to the innocent attempts to comply with cease-fires, to the sweet smile and “I love you, Mommy”… to a boy and his Transformers. And, it was worth it. Giving gifts inspite of yourself always is.

I bought my first Christmas gift in October — two, actually.

I’m not one of those early shoppers, but these two were necessary somehow. Little Drummer Boy and I were in Wal-mart looking for a meager prize befitting a 4-year-old in reward for something or another. As we rounded the corner of the car section, there it was. The Transformer Aisle. I tried my best to escape it, but LDB was mesmerized. Disney World has nothing on the Transformer Aisle in the eyes of a 4-year-old boy , at least not this particular boy.

Among the multitude of Transformer options, I was amazed at how many LDB recognized and how much he knew about them. I must admit that my only frame of reference for Transformers is the big boy underwear LDB loves and the need to turn OFF the Super Bowl last February as a result of LDB seeing one of the movie’s advertising spots. Needless to say, that particular reference was a little unimpressive. But, apparently one of his preschool friends is the consummate authority on Transformers and had been kind enough to share that knowledge with my little guy. J’s tidbits of information and Quiver’s modern-day version of “more than meets the eye” were all the requirements for a full-fledged Transformer love. Apparently.

As it turned out, 12″ versions of the robots complete with sounds and movement and eyes that light up all blue and menacing when you push the buttons were conveniently located on the bottom shelf of Transformer Aisle. Thank you, Wal-mart and your mass marketing machine. The toys had Mommy red flags all over them–mean voices, weapons of mass destruction, weapons of any kind, scary sounds. But, Little Drummer Boy was enamored. I let him know that they were too expensive for the “prize” we really came for and that I would think about them for Christmas. That’s all it took.

There were two transformers I vetoed right off the bat. They were all black with even weirder names and only mean monster-like sounds. I just couldn’t do it. But, I was more open to the other two. I guess Little Drummer Boy could tell because he began his sell pitch: “Please! Can we please, please get it for Christmas?” “They only kill bad guys.” “I won’t push the buttons.”– all very transparent attempts to comply with Mommy’s toy idiosyncrasies, while letting me know how much his heart was set on Transformers. I knew right away that this was a desire from which he would not be distracted. Time and distance from the Transformer Aisle would not squelch his memory or longing for these particular 12″ varieties.

It was the first toy Little Drummer Boy had ever really, really wanted–at least wanted for more than the ten minutes he was faced with the experience of being enticed by it. It was the first time it had actually registered in his mind that he would be getting presents for Christmas. We left the store with his hopes firmly in tact and my delimna brewing. LDB wanted something and I had the power to give it to him. Was there really anything else I needed to know?

Don’t you wish that’s how it always worked? Somebody wants something, and they have the audacity to ask for it, to actually articulate that desire, that need. I think the world might be a very different place if that’s how it most often happened. Unfortunately, it’s a little unusual for people in this world–the ones in my house, the ones in line at my Wal-mart, the ones in my InBox and in my neighborhood. It’s sadly unusual for folks to exercise the courage to say what they really want, what they really need. But, the reality is that hearts’ desires are often common between us at our most basic. It’s simply up to me to pay attention sometimes.

I’ve been thinking about gifts lately, it being the Christmas season and all. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about the far-reaching impact of gifts given inspite of yourself and the responsibility borne by those who are gifted, which we all are. We all have a sphere of influence at our disposal. The question is whether we are willing to engage it. We all have the power to give the gifts people we know (and those we don’t) really want. Mercy, freedom, shamelessness, forgiveness, absolution, courage, time, words, affirmation, attention, kindness, love. They are gifts relatively easy to give, if I don’t mind giving myself.

The gift of myself is the most natural one of all, but so often like those Transformers, I must do it inspite of myself, inspite of my own idiosyncrasies, my own self-absorption, my own hang-ups and hot-button issues, my own needs. I’m learning slowly but surely that it can be done. If I’m willing.

Back to October. Little Drummer Boy’s questions and hopes remained alive. He must have asked me fifty times a day, every day: “Can we just go LOOK at the Transformers?” “After tomorrow will it be Christmas?” “Can I please get those Transformers for Christmas?” The next week I went to Wal-mart on my lunch hour to buy my first Christmas presents. A twelve inch wing-spreading, trash-talking “Optimus Prime” AND a yellow bad-to-the bone “Bumblebee” Transformer. Wrapped in plastic bags, they found a place on the top shelf of our storage closet.

Fast forward to Friday, Christmas Day. I love the moment of truth on Christmas morning when my gifts get to see all the presents I’ve chosen for them and through much love (and a little frustration) unpackaged and carefully arranged for their wonder. When Little Drummer Boy rounded the corner of the couch and saw his particular stack, the shiny, red bicycle was completely lost as his smiling expression mouthed, “the Transformers.” He just turned around and looked at me. Then, before even approaching the gifts, he stopped to give me a hug and say “I love you, Mommy.” He hasn’t stopped pushing the buttons and banging their heads together since.

Categories : mother's heart

#300: The Story of Us

Posted by haley montgomery

· December 2, 2009

I’ve been thinking about stories. Every night I read them. Bug and Little Drummer Boy have their distinctive routines for getting in bed–their own special bed buddies, their own words they need to say to Mommy, their own way of wearing a blanket–and they always involve stories. Stories read and stories told. They would probably both read for hours or until their little eyelids gave way, but as the adult in the process, I usually set a few parameters. Bug reads two in the rocking chair by his bed and then gets in the crib for a backrub and a song. LDB reads one or two in the big red chair and then one in his bed before a backrub and a song. Mommy carries the veto power over whether we read short or long stories–and how many of their own stories they can tell–depending on how much time we have. I must admit that the system is a little fluid.

It’s funny reading stories with my children. Baby Girl’s version is a quick rampage through her little bookshelf. Every now and then she brings one to the window seat to discuss in her special Baby Girl language, but quickly tires of the details. Bug has finally moved past the rampage process and prefers to be in total control of the story experience, pointing out which words to read on each page. It makes for a disfunctional tale, but he seems to like it. Little Drummer Boy often ponders each page, asking questions and drawing conclusions about the characters at every turn. I’m always amazed at how they each become a part of every story they “read.” Each story is a story of us or of their day at school or of their favorite toy of the moment.

Me? I find myself focused at the beginning and end of the story, daydreaming through the pages. I coerce them into choosing a book to start. I rush them through closing the book and climbing in bed. In between, I often realize I’ve been thinking of something altogether different as I recite the words I’ve come to memorize.

I’ve been reminded over the past few weeks of the sheer generosity and courage found in telling stories–the stories at the heart of people. And, sadly, how quick I am to daydream through the pages, focused on the easier to mark signposts of start and finish, and assuming everything else in between. It’s so easy to impatiently want to skip to the end rather than endure the personal commitment of absorbing that daily, hard-revealed narrative. I’ve been amazed and grateful for the unselfish generosity of spirit revealed in the single pages of an individual’s story that has been freely laid open. And how much that generosity opens me to experience that story as my own–the story of us, not them.

This post is #300 in this little EyeJunkie storytelling experiment. The experiment represents the day to day pages of eighteen months and counting. It’s a humbling experience to see some of the connections that have been made through simple reading and writing, well-chosen and haphazard words. The stories start living. They breathe with the life of hardships and friendships and love and connections and disappointments and so many other things.

As I’ve been thinking through the direction of future posts, I’ve started to realize that stories need a storyteller so that those tales–of children and parents, hungry and thirsty, free and chained, crooked and straight–become the story of us. Not me. Not them. I want to be sure my attention in this endeavor is refocused on that generous act. I’ll try my best.

Categories : essays

12th Day of Thanksgiving

Posted by haley montgomery

· November 26, 2009

“Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy is everlasting. For He has satisfied the thirsty soul, and the hungry soul He has filled with good.”

(psalm 107: 1,9)

Categories : twelve days

Hello & welcome! I’m Haley Montgomery, and I’m the designer and owner of Small Pond Graphics. I sometimes fancy myself a frog kisser— a documentarian coaxing poignant moments from unexpected places. This blog has evolved from those moments.

The small Pond FIELD GUIDE is part diary, part sketchbook, and part wish list – an archive of ordinary wonders. For years, this space has housed my stories – creative ideas, vintage inspiration, our forays into curious places, and the simple artifacts of quiet of conscious living. Through watercolor, photography, and illustrated tales, these pages uncover the blessing of ordinary days and the wonder found in authentic places and pursuits.

I invite you to open the boxes.
Peek into the drawers.
Rustle through the pages.
I’m honored to have you here.