A Country Girl's Writing

 I 'm do excited for this short story. I've been wanting to share it with all of you for the past two weeks, but it wasn't ready two weeks ago.   It was inspired by all the familys that deal with alcohol addiction in their homes.  Whiskey Drinker   a short story by Evelyn Creon Like a ship sinking into a stormy sea, an empty bottle fell from his hands hitting the concrete floor with a crash ,  and shattering into a thousand pieces. He sat there half lying, half sitting in  is chair. The chair was using all its strength trying not to buckle beneath my father's weight. He was drunk. The smell of whiskey was strong on his breath. I sighed, a deep long one, trying to hold back tears of aching pain that filled me at the sight of him. Again I had found him lost in drowning everything with a drink. Guilt filled me. I felt like I should have used softer words when I scolded him like a child. It was in times like  those , when my...

This poem was written by my DAD when he was in 5th grade in 10-18-1984. My grandma came across this poem while going through all my dad's childhood things two weeks. When she showed it to me I fell in love with it. I never imagined my dad writing a poem, and this is just one more example of how amazing he is.  Michael built a bicycle  Usatiable for speed,  It's crammed with more accessories  Than any one could need. There's an am-jm radio, A deck to play cassettes,  A refrigerator- freezer, And a pair of tv sets. There are shelves for shirts and sweaters, There are hangers for his jeans, A drawer for socks and underwear, A rack for magazines. There's a fish tank and a birdcage, Perched upon the handlebars,  A lookcase, and telescope  To watch the moon and stars. There's a telephone and blender, And a stove to cook his meals.  There's a sink to do the dishes Somehow fastened to the wheels. There's...

I wrote this poem for some one that I adore and look up too, and is also my hero. Well Worked Hands  Your hands are stained with grease, From all the mechanical work. Your hands are roughed and calloused, From all the weather and the dirt. Your hands are big and bulky. They are strong and well worked.   The hands that are a comfort To people that you love.  Behind those wonderful hands, Is a person people respect. By Evelyn Creon