Bedtime Poem

Bedtime Poem

She wiggles to and off, around the bed,
Then on his lap she sits, always bouncing,
While he reads the idea she made up in his head
On the magnadoodle nothing-into-something.

She’s tired, but not, and bounds into bed:
Tuck me in, my light on. Go to sleep!
She always wants something, no, wait, nothing.
A spanking. She cries, then lays down her head.

Asleep, she dreams of something-from-nothing,
While a mom and dad chuckle, then sleep.

The Water Pitcher

Some of you know I've been working on a story called 'The Water Pitcher', based loosely on my Mom and Dad and one of their first fights about who should fill up the water pitcher. Course it's all fiction and it makes my Mom and Dad out to be much cooler and collected than I'm sure they were (that's not an insult, that's what my Mom said, too), but it's a fun little story.

It'll take you like 10 minutes to read. Just thought you might enjoy giving it a read through.

I'm also open to suggestions on it. There's never a finished work.

Tamra

The Water Pitcher

Mel opened his eyes. It was Tuesday morning and the clock said 4:01. He slowly pulled off the covers and tiptoed in the dark to the bathroom connected to the bedroom. He quietly shut the door and then turned on the light so Janell, still sleeping, wouldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t that Mel couldn’t sleep. He’d been waking up around 4:00 a.m. since the beginning of High School and his body wasn’t about to change that now. Without an alarm clock, without any external cues, he was up every day between 4:00 and 4:05 a.m.
After an efficient few minutes Mel walked out of the bedroom ready for the day and plopped himself down on the couch in the front room a little before 4:15 a.m. He looked down at the stack of books on the couch and shuffled through until he found “Modern Chemistry.” Mel was taking 20 credit hours at the University of Cincinnati, and he took his school work seriously. He had a near-photographic memory that had served him well in past schooling and would keep facts in his head for years to come, but he wouldn’t rely on his memory alone. School was too important for that.
A little after 6:30 he heard the alarm buzzing behind the closed bedroom door. Janell wasn’t a morning person; he knew it would take her another two more alarm buzzes to actually get up. Mel smiled to himself and glanced past the green cinder block makeshift bookshelf, to the kitchen, where the water pitcher caught his eye. The pitcher had been a wedding gift from Janell’s parents. It wasn’t grossly expensive, but it was nice glass with ivy leaves delicately etched around it, as if growing up the sides. Besides being the loveliest pitcher they owned, it was also the only pitcher they owned. Despite its dainty look, it was actually of very sturdy construction: heavy, with a thick glass handle attached artistically, but stably to the basin. And right now, it was sitting on the counter where it had been firmly planted for over 36 hours. The smile left Mel’s face. There still wasn’t water in the pitcher. He’d have to talk to Janell about that, like he’d been meaning to.
The alarm sounded the twice more Mel was expecting and then he heard her stirring in the bedroom. He knew her routine and how long it took her to start being awake and getting ready for the day. He got off the couch, walked into the kitchen and touched the empty water pitcher before he opened the fridge and looked inside to find a few apples, some pickles in a jar, a gallon jug half full of milk, a couple slices of bread in a bag, and a dozen eggs, but no cold water. He shut the fridge door and again looked at that water pitcher. He called to her just as loud as he needed for his voice to carry into the other room, “Janell!”
Mel heard a light shuffle, water turning quickly on, then off again, then soft, padded footsteps. The doorknob creaked when it turned and out walked Janell, short, beautiful, in her bathrobe. White curlers occasionally showed among her thick, long, auburn hair. A single strand of hair fell in front of her grey-blue eyes. She bounced a little as her bare toes stepped lightly on the soft, off-white carpet. She entered the kitchen and her feet thudded on the cold tile. She stopped a few feet away from Mel, his eyes fixed on her face and his jaw falling ever so slightly. “Yes, Mel?” she asked, her hands still adjusting some of the curlers.
Mel almost smiled, then cleared his throat. He pointed to the pitcher on the counter top and tried to be stern. “Th-this water pitcher has been sitting here empty for two days. Have you noticed?”
“Sure.” Janell played with her hair and adjusted a few more curlers. Her feet fidgeted and her toes curled in and out.
“Well, why didn’t you fill it up and put it back in the fridge?” he asked, fighting back his urge to just tell her she was beautiful.
“I didn’t empty it.”
“Why should that make a difference? If you see it here, fill it up,” he said, gesturing from the pitcher to the sink.
Janell leaned against the wall. “Mel, honey, I thought that you wanted it empty.”
“Why would I want it empty? You know I like cold water.”
“I know,” she said. She furrowed her face as if in deep thought. “But you had the last glass of cold water and then sat the pitcher on the counter. You know it doesn’t fill itself. So I thought maybe you liked looking at it empty.” She looked at Mel with a little twinkle in her eyes. “It is such a pretty pitcher,” she added.
Mel melted just a little. Then he picked up the pitcher, trying for a compromise. “Well, next time could you just fill it up?”
She walked over to him, leaned forward on her tiptoes, kissed him gently on the cheek, then started walking back to the bedroom and said over her shoulder, “Nope.”
Mel stared down the hallway at her, not knowing what to say next. “Please?” he begged.
“Nope.” She kept walking down the hall, past the picture of her parents and siblings on the right-hand wall, and past the figurines borrowed from his father on shelves mounted to the left-hand wall.
“You’re just being stubborn, Nellie,” he insisted in one last attempt to win the battle.
“Yep,” she said, not even looking back, and then closed the bedroom door behind her.
Mel stood in the kitchen, unmoved from the position he was in when the conversation started. He looked down at the pitcher, then back at the bedroom door and shook his head as he walked to the sink and filled up the water pitcher. He put it back in the fridge so it would be there, cold, waiting for him when he got back from school and work. There was a lot on their plates as almost starving newly wed students: he was going to school full-time and working full-time and Janell was working full-time and somewhere in there they also had to fit in their marriage and, later, their kids. But for now he didn't have to be to school for another half hour, so he drifted back to the couch and plopped down.
He looked over his shoulder and the back of the couch to the bedroom door, still closed. Then he leaned back, sighed, picked up his chemistry book, and tried to study. But Mel found himself unable to put his whole heart and mind into the task. Usually he was very precise when he studied, focusing so hard he often lost track of full hours in the day. But right now the text book was not appealing. He read three pages, taking notes and missing the most important things. He wondered when she would come out that door.
He glanced around the room: the wooden clock he’d made in shop class in high school, the mantel over the fireplace that didn’t work, the quilts and blankets piled in the corner for convenient access when cuddling on the couch. He put his hand on the stack of books next to him, opened the top book—Economics—and flipped through a few pages, all highlighted yellow. Reluctantly, he shook his head and forced himself to focus. Two pages more he read, this time forgetting note-taking all-together. He'd end up re-reading all five pages that night.
Looking at the bedroom door again, hopeful, he closed his book with his fingers still in it, then set the book to the side and stood up. He hesitated a little as he thought about what he’d say. “Should I ask for an apology? Should I apologize to her?” His thoughts spun around his head. “Or should I just tell her what I’ve been meaning to say all morning?” He looked back at the clock—still enough time to go tell her what he had to say and make it to school on time. His eyes never left the door as he walked around the couch, down the hall and to the door. He paused again, wondering why she hadn’t come out of the room yet, and then turned the doorknob. He slowly opened the door and there she stood with her back towards him, fully clothed, hair done, her hands at her ears clipping on her earrings. "The most beautiful woman in the world," Mel thought. All thoughts of who should apologize, or getting to school on time left his mind. He knew what he had come in there to do.
She turned towards him and smiled her normal comfortable smile—not pushy or overbearing, just letting you be what you wanted to be, whatever that was. She finished with her earrings, put her hands by her side as if to say, “I am finished,” and asked, "How do I look?"
The first time Janell had ever asked him that, he was speechless; he could only oogle. That was six years ago when she was 15 and their romance had just started; he had learned since then. He fell into her eyes and let himself stay in their deep blue warmth. "Beautiful,” he said. “Always beautiful." Then he walked over to her, she said, "Thank you," and he kissed her.

My Summer - a college essay

When I was in HS I wrote an essay, called Death on a Mountain, about Ruben's death. It wasn't a horrid piece, I'm sure, but it was written by my highschool self and deserved a new treatment from a more mature and less depressed Tamra. This was written for my BYU Independent Study writing class.

My Summer

by Tamra Thacker

Sept. 20, 2004

My older brother, Ruben, was born on October 18, 1974. He was a good child: very patient, sensitive to spiritual things, always got good grades, and was amazing at sports. I was born in 1981. He was a hard act to follow, but I only found the spirituality difficult to live up to. My dad tells the story of him going to a party and refusing even soda with caffeine for religious reasons. A little over-the-top, maybe, but eventually his friends offered non-caffeinated things just for him.

***

We were at a stake conference where one of the speakers quoted a church leader that I had little respect for. I didn’t have a good reason for that, I just had heard negative things said by other people until that view of him became my own view. As we filed out of the building, and with disgust in my voice, I said, “I don’t like that man.”

Ruben looked at me—an impressionable young girl—and replied simply, “How come?”

I proceeded with a tirade of insults for the man, regurgitating all the junk I had been fed. I was feeling pretty good about myself and I was impressed that he was listening so intently to my self-inflating talk. I was sure I had found an audience that agreed with my view. I finished my monologue and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, very humbly, and without any argument in his voice, “I like him.”

Without objecting he had let me have my say, and then, in a teaching moment I would value all my life, he took the high road and surprised me with love.

***

Ruben came home from his mission and almost without my approval, I fell in love with him. He was cleaning his room and going through his stuff, and asked me to keep him company. I agreed out of boredom more than anything. He was extremely generous; everything I expressed an interest in, he offered to me. He was just like that. I walked to my own room to find something and got sidetracked, I guess, because soon he yelled out, “Tamra, don’t leave me!”

By the end of those few hours—laughing, sharing, chatting—he was my best friend. I realized there was more to him than I had thought. This pillar of spirituality was fun, caring, and showed me more love and attention than I assumed a sister deserved. Soon we became inseparable. Rather, I was so attached to him that he couldn’t get away.

***

That same summer, I decided to create the new me. I still recall a naive, waif of a girl sitting down by desk lamp light in an otherwise dark basement room, desperately clinging to information as if it might float out of my brain. Dictionaries, encyclopedias, and scriptures were strewn across the desk. I remember first sitting down to read all about Hitler, my most recent fascination at the time. Then I would move on to other topics and eventually memorize each encyclopedia in its entirety.

The new me would be smart.

We took a trip from St. Charles, MO, my home town, to Utah. I was barely 15 and too young to drive. Instead, I stuck to my task of keeping the driver awake. We spent two days in the car driving across very boring country. There was not much to do besides talk, and because I was the only non-driver, I got to talk a lot. I learned a lot from the two men I was stuck in the car with: my dad and Ruben. Dad told stories about his childhood, his marriage, and his children. I had heard some, some were new. Ruben talked about his mission, his friends in Utah, and school. Mostly, though, he listened to me talk. He seemed more interested in learning about me than in talking about himself. I didn’t know listening to others could be rewarding.

By the time we got to Utah, he had given me more advice that I actually listened to than anyone else in my life. I soaked in everything he told me.

The rest of my family and some other extended relatives showed up in Utah about the same time we did. My oldest brother, Budge, was getting married in a few days to a girl he’d been engaged to for a year and a half, off and on. We had all come to celebrate.

July 8th, Dad’s birthday. He left that afternoon for a business trip to New York somewhere. He traveled a lot. I wished him happy birthday. He didn’t seem to care about his Day.

The following day, 2 days before the wedding, anxious to keep everyone entertained, we went on a hike recommended to us by Ruben’s “girlfriend.” I remember the dirt and gravel road we had to drive up to get there. It was a long drive, but a short hike that everyone could do, she promised, with a lake at the top to swim in.

Ruben’s girlfriend started up the trail walking very fast. I could tell Ruben wanted to be with her, but for some reason decided it best to let her go ahead. I walked up the mountain with Ruben, arm in arm, chatting, thrilled at the opportunity to be alone with him. Our conversation settled at one point on a certain cousin I found annoying. I went off about her being rude, self-centered, and, worst of all, uninteresting. I saw no way in my 15-year-old mind for her to be able to change. Of course he listened attentively and characteristically replied, “She’s young. Give her time.”

Somehow, without saying anything offensive, he had not only told the truth—she did change and grow—but had given me to know that maybe I wasn’t perfect either. He had found a way into my heart and mind and gently pleaded for me to re-evaluate myself. Every moment like that my heart stopped and deep inside, though I didn’t quite understand why, I knew he was right.

I was out of shape, Ruben wasn’t. He went on, after a while and with approval, without me. I sucked in less air than I was used to the rest of the way. He almost ran. He stopped to wave to me from the top. He seemed miles ahead of me.

I reached the lake to see Ruben and Keith, another brother, with shirts and shoes off, deciding if they wanted to jump in the deathly cold water. I called them wimps. Ruben promised to jump in if I did. I kept my clothes and shoes on and plunged in the shockingly cold water. I thought I was brave, but I quickly gave that up. I walked around the lake while Ruben swam to the other side.

He never made it. Halfway there he changed direction and dogpaddled to the side, a fact we little noted at the time. He started struggling as he swallowed water. I must have heard it first. Keith was closest to him, then I. Neither of us were strong swimmers, nor did we sense a real need to assist Ruben. I called out vain encouragements of “Come on,” “You can make it,” and “You’re almost there!” He was almost there, probably only 2 strokes away from where he could stand.

His last word was, “Help!” Somehow I think he probably had imagined his last words differently. By the time we pulled him out there was little we could do but cry. He was dead, and suddenly I saw the world in slow motion.

***

He was dead. How could that be? I took off my sopping wet shoes, cold against my tired, worn feet. I had started swimming with them on and now they were unfit to wear. But Ruben wouldn’t need his shoes, and they were sitting on the rock where he had left them, so I wore them as we walked, single-file, not speaking, occasionally stopping from grief, down the mountain trail. At our first rest I sat down from an overwhelming and consuming apathy. I looked up to the top where Ruben’s body still laid. I saw Ruben standing there, both arms waving in the air to get my attention. He motioned for me to hurry up. I stuck out my tongue. Why had I done that? We kept going down the trail as the sunlight faded. The many rocks made the going slow. I usually run down trails, but I didn’t feel like running.

We reached the stream where Ruben and I had parted. I wished, then, I had been in shape enough to keep up. Oh, a lot of things would have been different if I had been in shape. On the way up that stream had been beautiful. On the way down it was a menace. It babbled and careened around rocks as it flowed down the side of the mountain. It didn’t flow fast enough to drain that lake.

The rest of the trail was physically easy. We took it very, very slow. At this point Ruben had told me I was a great sister. At that point he admonished me to be easier on my family, to show more love. He had put his arm around me and I drew in closer to him in the way adoring fans do: more of a melt. The man I had sought approval from showed me what I most wanted. Here’s where we had talked about the trees—they were almost sacred, I had thought. Rows and rows of white poles with gorgeous purple and red wild flowers interspersed between them. They reminded me of the trees from the Sacred Grove, or what I imagined they should be like. They had taken my breath away.

We got to the end of the trail. We hadn’t even remembered to get the keys to the van from Mom, who was still at the top of the mountain waiting for a helicopter to come and take the body. A couple asked us if we needed any help. “No,” I told them. “Our brother is dead.” Of all the people affected by Ruben’s death, I pity them the most. They were happy and unable to make us happy. They wanted to take our pain away and could not. Their faces spoke of pity for us and sadness at viewing someone else’s tragedy. I found myself at the same time morbidly pleased to see pain on someone else’s face and mortified to feel their agony. Hesitantly they moved up the trail. I half hoped we had ruined their day.

***

I spent the rest of my summer reliving that hike in painful and increasing detail. It didn’t help. I stayed up later than my mind could handle. I cursed at the Almighty, cried silently, cleaned floors until my arms ached. I searched and searched for meaning. And that was the meaning. Finally, for the first time in my life I was looking inside myself. In the midst of the tragedy, the chaos, I dug deeper than I knew I could to find myself, my strength, buried beneath all the superfluous extremities. The particulars of what I found don’t matter—we all find something different—but we all need those moments, rare and special in our lives, to prompt us to search.

Statement - a college essay

I took an Independent Study class through BYU. It was creative writing, I think, though I'm not sure now. Anyways, at the end we had the assignment of writing out a statement and this is what I came up with. (this part written Nov. 2008)

Statement

This course has taught me more about myself and my writing than I thought it would. I have been interested in writing since I figured out I could make people feel things through my words. What a powerful thing to create. I was a sophomore in high school. I’ve been writing ever since, off and on, and it’s all been decent amateur work, but like most amateur writers, I hated my work being critiqued. I felt people were purposely trying to tell me I was doing a bad job, or that I couldn’t cut it. Could I help it if people didn’t have my writing genius?

Shortly before signing up for the class, however, I wrote my first piece that I wanted people’s opinion on. Mainly because I knew I was going to write something that I had never written before and I knew I needed help to pull it off. Looking back, the piece I wrote needs major revisions still, but it was a success for what it needed to be at the time. It was the first time I wrote something for someone else’s eyes besides mine. For someone else’s liking besides mine. And I found I could handle rewriting. I didn’t like it, but I could do it.

Of course, once signing up for the course, it took me a while to get back into that mode of rewriting. The first reason rewriting is hard for me is that I am lazy. I often want work that isn’t perfect (that’s too hard), but good enough. The second reason is what I discussed above—revision is admitting your work isn’t good enough, that the artistic piece I created wasn’t beautiful for what it was.

Then we hit the lessons on revision. And I saw some light. The previous lessons I had taken with a large grain of pepper. What does B.W. Jorgensen have to teach me anyway? But as I started rewriting because I had to, and as the lessons spelled out why I needed to rewrite (mainly to get published some day), I found rewriting to not be as difficult as I assumed it would be. I found myself liking to hear feedback. Throughout the course of the class, I’ve asked about ten people what they thought about my pieces, respectively, as a whole, how I could improve it, any fine-tuning they thought I needed, and so on. That’s about eleven people more than I’ve ever had give me feedback I’d listen to.

So, mainly, through this class I’ve learned that I’m not the fabulous, rough-draft-can-pull-it-off writer I thought I was. And that I can revise things and not sacrifice the art, the piece as a whole, or even particular words or sentences that I really like. I’ve even been given a few suggestions that have turned my whole piece around and made it a better work than the one I originally created.

And I’ve learned I’ve got a lot more work to do.

All My Poetry

All My Poetry

He inspired all my poetry
A gift he gave so easily
By making me unhappy:
A debt I won’t repay.

Boxes - a poem

Boxes

She waited by the stairs,
Her boxes never moving.
Alone they sat, and so did she.

A house of piles and junk
She’d saved from years of living.
She vows to someday clean them out.

Her someday comes. And clean
they did. All boxes empty
Except for one: A lone casket.

His Greatest Disappointment - a short poem

His Greatest Disappointment

I never was so disappointing when
I had my choices made for me. I see
(now that I look): he thinks my greatest sin
Is letting down him without letting down me.

His Mother - a poem

I write awkward and unfinished poetry. First-draft style.

His Mother

He wiggles and squirms and coos with delight
And copies all that he can within sight.
Bigger tomorrow he’ll be, and do more
Soon he’ll be eighteen and walk out our door.

For now he’s our baby and always I know
He’ll stay my sweet baby until and although
He’ll have to choose a life all his own.

Mother I am and his mother I’ll be
I know he could never forget me
(I am the field from which he was sewn).

To the One I Left - a poem

To the One I Left
by Tamra Thacker
Sept. 15, 2004

The one I left, he left
For someone else. A girl
With long brown hair and curls
And curves I never had.

It shouldn’t be so hard
When I’m the one who left
Him first. But he’s the first
Love lost that found a love.

I didn’t even love him.

And now I find myself
In life with him I love
And kids that I adore.
I have no regrets.

The one I left I lost
Because he left. And I
Can count the cost of me
And owning the life I love.

Thoughts on Traditional Values

I wrote this before the last Presidential election. Apparently politics makes me ponder on traditional values. This is not a polished piece, but more a free-writing session centered loosely on the topic of traditional values. (this part written Nov. 2008)

Thoughts on Traditional Values

So I've been thinking about traditional values. Don't know what I've been thinking about them, per se, but I've been thinking about them. Rob's been into politics lately, which feels related to values. Somehow. I grew up semi-sneering at traditional values. Too cramped and old. And some people with traditional values just don't get it. You know? They're close-minded and stuffy and icky. Then I decided to give them a try. Don't mind them. They're comforting. And in Utah, they're about all you've got if you want to blend in. I like blending in most times. Not that I mind sticking out. ... New age values. They sound so inviting. And in a lot of ways I like some of them. They make you think sometimes. Make you squirm a little, which is good. Traditional values are boring and seem trite and tired.

But somehow it seems to me that if traditional values are still around, there must be something to them. Maybe, even though they're boring, they can also be right. Maybe by sticking to them we can really find some lasting happiness. Like Poor Richard's Almanac and his sayings. Little bits of wisdom that still ring true years and years later. Like Christ in the New Testament teaching people 2000 years later. Amazing, isn't that? But nothing says that just because traditional values are boring, they're wrong. Just because they don't sell, we shouldn't believe in them and support them. Something else dawned on me. People may like to see movies with violence and sex, etc., in them. But they don't like to live like that, generally. Go across America and you're going to find well-adjusted adults living normal, boring, traditional-value-centered lives. Their kids are normal-ish and trying to be good kids. The media we engage in sometimes is less than admirable, and well below what we'd choose for ourselves in our lives. Soap operas aren't real. They aren't what people want. They're just interesting.

Someday someone should write boring books about boring people who also happen to be good, and right, and heroic. And then it should sell.

Discovering the Water Park

Here are some cute pictures we took from time we spent today at a water park. Basically glorified sprinklers but Miciah loves it and it's almost free! Enjoy the pictures.

Things are going great and we're loving Cincinnati. We're near a whole heap of family, and we're finding friends at school and church. We're settled into our space and we're starting to get into a groove with life, which is nice to return to some sort of normalcy (whatever kind that is for us).

the Thackers

P.S. You can see how much Elijah loved the park. :) Every time we so much as got his feet wet he would scream.