Today I am going to reuse my first blog.  It explains why I named my blog “Battered Suitcases” and I hope it will give the reader a bit of insight into my minimal creative writing skills!

Yesterday afternoon I arrived in Monterey, checked into the Victorian Inn, had my complimentary wine, cheese, and fruit, and took a nice walk through the Cannery Row area of town.  I’m including a few photos here.

The view from my balcony.

Stay tuned for details of this photo!

I am not a creative writer.  I’ve written journals intended only for an audience of one…me!  Please excuse poor word choices, incoherent ramblings, dangling participles, mixed metaphors and tenses.  This entry is meant to explain why I chose the title “Battered Suitcases" for my blog.  I welcome all comments and critiques.  Please be kind and constructive!

The battered suitcase I carry every day is bursting!  It is filled with the visions of my son Cal at his birth and of the deaths of my husband, mom, grandparents, father-in-law, friends, and the suicide of my nephew.  It is filled with failures and successes, experiences at home and of cultures at the far ends of the earth; with the profound silence on a windless day on the ice of Antarctica, with learning the names and scents of the wildflowers of Kentucky; it is in my students’ frustrations (as they become mine) and the moment when they finally understand the relationship between pressure and the volume of a gas (these also become mine).  

I’ve crammed in the Charm School dropouts, members of the J and J Club, the Bobwhites of St. Pius, my friends, acquaintances, and those individuals I would rather forget.  My suitcase overflows with pride as I watch my son grow into a man of integrity and compassion.  It pulses with the struggles of my family and with my neighbors around the globe.  Packed into my baggage is the discipline my father gave me: the desire for order, for promptness, for simplicity and organization.  And next to it is my mother’s spontaneity and her gift for making the simplest gesture seem grand.

My battered suitcase sits by the side of the road (or in my heart) waiting to squeeze in more of everything this road of life has to offer!