When I Grow Up

A Show of Strength

By Kimberly Yavorski November 6, 2016 family history

young boys in swimsuits flexing muscles

Nov 6 – describe the possible story behind a favorite family photo

A Show of Strength

Choosing a favorite photo would be like choosing a favorite child, almost impossible. This photo was among a number of family photos I recently acquired. It makes me smile, because it depicts such a common family event. Three of the four boys are cousins; I am not sure how Sluggo, the one in a shirt, fits in with the group. While the photo I have is small, less than two square inches, when enlarged, you can see that Tommy, the boy in the back, is enjoying what looks like a large piece of watermelon. Billy, on the left, and Donald in the middle, are eager to show off. In the background, Grandma is sitting at a table and a couple women (I believe maybe their moms) are distracted by something behind the boys. It makes one think that perhaps these shows of bravado were common, as the women pay the boys no attention whatsoever.

Before this photo was taken, the family was enjoying a picnic, likely at a local lake, where most of the family went wading or swimming in the water. Whether Tommy and Billy had more recently gotten out of the water or just disliked wearing shoes is something that only they can tell us. What is apparent is that this is a family accustomed to spending time together. I would say is it just as likely as not that following this photo, the boys got into a scuffle over who has the bigger muscles and a wrestling match may have ensued. That of course would have gotten the attention of those moms who only moments before were paying them no mind at all.

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1930 Block Party in Scranton

By Kimberly Yavorski November 5, 2016 writing challenges

Nov 5 – Tell about a fictional block party using a census page for the guest list

This past weekend, local families had a party on the block bordered by East Market Street, Maylert Ave., Electric Street and Von Storch Ave. of Scranton, PA. Most of the families live in rented homes, only the Willliams, Wilson and Yeslavage families own their houses.

Everyone made a dish. The menu included potato salad, sliced ham, fried chicken, baked beans, peaches and cream, strawberry ice cream, bread pudding, iced tea, and a special treat for the kids supplied by Mr. Williams, Tootsie rolls and Twinkies.

The women compared recipes and complimented each other on the dishes they had made. When they had a chance to stop fussing about the food, they sat sipping iced tea, and sharing stories they had heard at the market. The young ladies who worked in town talked about people who had come into the shops that week and about other young ladies in town who were recently engaged. Many of the men worked in the coal mines or otherwise as laborers and were glad for a day off. Some played dominoes while others sat and smoked while chatting about the news of the day. Mr. Williams worked at the railroad office. His son Carlton was a clerk at Blum’s Parts and he and George Fletcher, who was an auto mechanic, talked about the newest cars being made. Mr and Mrs. Yeslavage don’t speak much English, so they were quiet for the most part, with their older kids translating when necessary.

The Wilson’s had recently gotten a pedal car, which all the little kids wanted to try. Nine-year-old James was kind enough to share and organized the children in a line to take turns riding around the block. Hugh (12) and Francis (10) Cochrane said they were too old for such a toy, but Hamilton, 4, enjoyed the ride immensely. Raymond (13) and Harriett (11) Depue declined to take a turn. Ruth Mott (10) on the other hand wanted to give it a try and Dorothy (10) and Ruth (8) Fletcher, Henry (9), Harry (9) and Jack (5) Yates, Albert (9) and David (7) Reese, Norman Shaw (8), Walter Yeslavage and the Thomas kids, Doris (9), George (9) and Albert (5) all happily took a spin as well. A couple of the girls made the boys wait as they had to get their dolls settled in before setting off.

While waiting, some of the kids started a game of leapfrog and by the end of the day, even the older kids got involved in a game of hide and seek, using the yards of all the homes on the block as potential hiding places.

About half of the families had a radio (Walter Mott actually sold them); the programs were interesting, especially when the radio hosts were telling stories. Some families had a Victrola and some records and brought them outdoors. For the party, they played music by Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Fred Astaire and Bing Crosby and the teenagers danced. Gertrude (13), Rose Hughes (14), Ellen Cochrane (13), Grace (15) and Florence(17) Depue, Olive Nicholls (16) and Sarah Yeslavage (14) were happy to sit and listen to music, and occasionally got up to take a turn dancing as well. The older boys, Harold Nicholls (17), Robert Connolly (17), Earl Mott (16), Llord White (14), Leonard (13) and George (15) Fletcher played a lively game of pick up sticks or alternatively played with a couple bolo bats or yoyos that were on hand.

The party ended shortly after dusk as the moms got the younger kids off to bed and the teenagers sat clustered talking and laughing until they too were chased indoors. There were plenty of chores in the day ahead.

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Gertie May Be Gone But She Will Never Be Forgotten

By Kimberly Yavorski November 4, 2016 family history

Nov 4 – write an obituary for an ancestor

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Gertrude Thomas Hopkins Parise, 85, passed away on September 16, 2002 in Cape Coral, FL.

She was born Dorothy Gertrude Thomas on January 20, 1917 in Scranton, PA to George and Lena Thomas. The oldest of five, her grandmother called her Gertrude, so that is what she went by for the rest of her life. She fell in love and married Leon Hall Hopkins on April 11, 1936. They had three children and were active in the community, frequently appearing in the Scranton social pages. Sometime after their third child was born, the family moved to New Jersey where there was the promise of good jobs.

Things did not work out and Gert found herself a single mom in the projects in Seth Boyden NJ. She worked a variety of jobs to support the family for companies such as a retail clerk at Woolworth’s and in the meat-packing plant for A&P. Though she worked full time, she still found time to plan and throw elaborate parties for her children and was well loved by their friends. She also continued her habit of providing for those less fortunate; no one went hungry when she could help it.

In time, she met another man, Dan Healing, with whom she had a long-time relationship and who became a step-father of sorts to her children and a loving grandfather to her grandchildren. They ultimately went their separate ways.

Gert achieved a modest level of fame singing in nightclubs in the Newark, NJ area before turning to her talent for cooking as a short-order cook in a tavern in Newark. She continued this line of work when she moved to Colonia, N.J. where she ran Gert’s Kitchen at the Rahway Inn.

Not one to leave her talents at work, she hosted many holiday events and was especially known for her cooking, especially her baked ziti. She loved knick-knacks of all kinds but was especially fond of salt and pepper shakers of which she had hundreds.

On October 3, 1989, after Leon’s death, she married again, making her long-term relationship with Joe Parise official. Shortly after, they moved to Point Pleasant, NJ where she lived a semi-retired life, working occasionally as a “home organizer.” She was a doting grandmother and would drop everything when the kids came to visit. She was widowed in 1995 and in 1997 moved to Florida with her daughter Donna.

She was preceded in death by her husbands, Leon Hopkins and Joe Parise, her brother John Thomas and his wife Helen, and her brother George Thomas Jr.

She is survived by her sister Doris Dargan, her sister-in-law Olive Thomas, her brother Albert Thomas and his wife Mary, her children, Lee Hopkins, Donald Hopkins and Donna and her husband Tony Venturi, three grandchildren and their spouses and four great-grandchildren as well as many nieces and nephews.

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You Never Forget Your First Home

By Kimberly Yavorski November 3, 2016 family history, writing challenges

tan raised ranch home in suburbs

Nov 3 – Your ancestor got his first house

Most of my ancestors rented their homes, so there are few family stories about purchasing a home for the first time. In fact, there are so few that the first one of significance is from a time I actually remember. This first home purchase was in 1971. It was new construction in a new suburb and I remember as a four-year-old, driving out to the property on weekends to see the progress.

It was a small development, in an Illinois cornfield, where the local roads had numbers instead of names. The land had previously been a farm, and across a field, an old barn was kept to serve as a community center of sorts. My dad would drive up the dirt road, to our staked-out property and we just sat and looked at, or got out of the car and touched “our land.” Each time we came back, a little more progress had been made. At first there were wood stakes marking where the house would go. The dirt roads were paved and it was possible to envision where all the houses would be built. Then gradually, we saw our house come into being. There was the foundation and the framing, then the roof and siding.

The house was designed as a “raised ranch,” with stairs going either up or down after walking onto a small landing just inside the front door. On one visit, we could see that the interior walls had been erected and my dad held me up high so that I could see inside. I was fascinated and he let me climb up onto the second floor and explore (the stairs were not yet installed). I was disappointed when it was time to go home and looked forward to the day we would move in.

We all felt the excitement of owning a house. Knowing that it was being built just for us made it even more special. The day the keys were turned over was a proud one for my dad. He owned a house. He couldn’t have been happier if he had built it himself. He took great pride in home ownership and made the house even more a home by finishing the vast, empty downstairs into an extra bedroom, playroom, bathroom and recreation room. After apartment living, it seemed like the biggest house in the world, especially to a couple who had grown up in the city. The yard was lovingly landscaped and my mom got the Weeping Willow tree she had long wanted.

Leaving that house was difficult. We were moving back to New Jersey and would be living near most of our family, but we had made many memories in the three years we lived there. I am sure that my parents’ feelings about moving on were bittersweet. Though the new house was bigger, it was not yet home. We have had the opportunity to go back and see the house since then and though it is much smaller than remembered, it still feels like ours, like we left some pieces behind. Most people today move around and have lived in many places, but there is just something special about the first home you actually own.

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Every Family Has a Character

By Kimberly Yavorski November 2, 2016 relationships, writing challenges

Nov 2 – your ancestor is a character in a novel

Gertrude was a character. She had the most beautiful piercing blue eyes that twinkled when she smiled and flashed on the rare occasion she was angry. She regularly insisted she was an ugly duckling, but her inner beauty radiated. Her signature red hair ensured she would not get lost in a crowd and she kept it perfectly coiffed.

Her style was typical for that of a mature professional woman in the 1970s. When she performed, her clothes sparkled like her smile. She dressed to impress; not in a cheap, tawdry way, but in a way that exuded class. She had an impressive collection of long gowns and costume jewelry that she wore when singing in clubs and was careful, fussy even, about how they were maintained.

Her voice was musical, even when she wasn’t singing, yet her laugh can only be described as a cackle. Once she got going, one couldn’t help but join in, and once started, it was difficult to stop. She loved to laugh and it was evident in her face. Even though she was well into middle age, her face was pleasant, without a hint of the difficulties she had endured in life. Babies would stare at her, fascinated, as she cooed over them, grabbing their hands and tickling their toes. Her fine wrinkles only enhanced her features and showed a woman who had lived and loved well.

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A Letter to My Great Great Grandfather

By Kimberly Yavorski November 2, 2016 relationships, writing challenges

30 Day Family History Writing Challenge

November has become the month for writing challenges. I have attempted NaNiWriMo, but decided that this year was not a year to try again. Then I saw NaBloPoMo, which I found tempting, but again, I have a lot on my plate right now, and decided to pass. Then, last night, I saw the 30 Day Family History Writing Challenge sponsored by Family Tree Magazine, with daily prompts. Now this is something I can do! The first prompt was easy to jump into and I wrote my post last night (by hand as I was away from the computer and don’t have the patience to type long pieces on my phone). This is a busy month, so we’ll see how this goes. I hope you enjoy following along.

Nov 1 – Write a letter to an ancestor you have never met.

Dear Will Robinson,

Your oldest daughter’s birth is one of our family’s biggest mysteries. We know that she was born in 1895 in Indian Territory in Oklahoma, and was given a Choctaw name but don’t know why.

How is it that you and Frances, both with families recently immigrated from the UK, ended up in Oklahoma? Did you go for the promise of land? Or did you go as some have more recently suggested, because of the promise of work as the area was rich in coal?

You only stayed a few years. Why was that? Was the work opportunity not what you expected? Was the weather too unpredictable? (Tornado Alley is very different from Scranton PA or Wales.)

Your oldest daughter, my great grandmother, was born during the time you lived there (sometime between 1894 and 1898, as I know you married in Scranton in 1894 and your second daughter was born in Scranton in 1898). My mom has commented that your two daughters bore little resemblance to each other. As birth certificates were not required at that time, I have not found any records about the details of Grandma’s birth.

Once at a Native American festival, I got in a conversation with a man and mentioned my mystery. He looked at me and confidently said that she may have been Choctaw and that she may have been adopted. He said that such adoptions were not uncommon when a baby was orphaned and the community had befriended white folks.

I have tried to explore this possibility, with no luck. I have turned up records (census and death certificate) that list her being born in Indian Territory, OK, but my inquiries with individuals in the Choctaw Nation have been discouraging. She had been given a Choctaw name, Shitoka (I am spelling this phonetically) but that of course is proof of nothing. Of course proving that this is true would turn my research on end (and would mean we are not related by blood), but I would like to know the truth.

I have resigned myself to the fact that I may never find conclusive proof one way or the other, but plan on continuing my research anyway. I think my next course of action is to peruse Oklahoma newspapers from that time. My biggest challenge currently is narrowing down the area and Indian Territory is quite large. Even if we are not blood relatives, you raised my great grandmother and her sister, my dear Aunt Betty, both of whom were beloved by their family. I just wish you hadn’t taken this secret with you.

Your loving great, great granddaughter,

Kimberly

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When You Are Hoping for History to Repeat Itself

By Kimberly Yavorski October 28, 2016 family history, relationships

When I grow up, I want to be the kind of old lady that many families have, the one that is slightly eccentric and well loved, the one who is not afraid to speak her mind and exudes confidence.

I have several such ladies in my family tree and I hope to have the fulfilling lives they did. On my mom’s side, I have my great great grandmother, who cleaned in the nude, my great Aunt Betty who rubbed shoulders with Florenz Ziegfeld and Al Capone and my dear grandmother who drank like a frat boy, swore like a sailor and loved more and better than any other person I have ever known. On my dad’s side, my great great grandmother found a way to move her entire family from Italy to the U.S. and was the undisputed head of the family even after her children were grown; my Aunt Marie traveled and dispensed advice to the younger generations with poise and class. My husband’s family had a lady or two like this as well. His great Aunt Mary had spunk to the end and insisted on living her life her way, without compromise or apology and his Aunt Helen was independent and a little sassy; she told it like it was.

These are the women I admire. They had spunk and sass and it only seems fitting during Family History Month to remember them and their contribution to our lives. I never knew my mom’s great grandmother, but her stories live on. She had the gift of sight and had married multiple husbands (the exact number has yet to be determined as her records have so far been elusive). Each worked in the coal mines and she correctly foretold they would die there (making one wonder why the latter ones didn’t they get the hint).

I remember my great great aunt Betty, my grandmother’s mother’s sister. She died when I was young, but I spent a significant amount of time with her; she stayed with me when my sister was born as well as certain occasions when my parents had to travel. She also came for extended visits. She looked exactly the same all the years I knew her, with the same curly blue silver hair and glasses. When her health began to fade, she lived with us for a stretch before moving to another relative’s house shortly before her death. Though I was too young to remember much of what she said (and too young to understand her stories that have been relayed to me since then), I remember her as a gentle, loving presence in my life.

I couldn’t possibly say enough about my grandmother. She was unlike any other grandma I knew and all my friends agreed. Forced to be a single mom when her three children were young, she was a working mom in an era that made her a rarity. She held an assortment of jobs and at some point landed a singing gig at a nightclub. She had an amazing voice and sang at most family weddings. Though the band for my wedding hesitated, I let it be known that saying no would be a dealbreaker, so they relented. They weren’t sorry. She loved her beer and though most of us looked at it as a flaw we could overlook, many young men were impressed and many a boy proved himself wrong by saying he could outdrink her. Despite her flaws, she loved passionately. She showed me the meaning of unconditional love. She may have gotten angry with me once or twice, but I never for a second doubted that she loved me.

My dad’s Mamanon’, another ancestor I never had the fortune to meet, was apparently a formidable woman. The family story is that when her only daughter was to be married, her fiancé sent money for her to travel across the Atlantic to America. Instead of sending her daughter, Mamanon’ sent one of her sons. This was repeated a couple times, until her soon-to-be son-in-law got the message and sent for the rest of the family. Once here, she settled in and made sure that her children behaved in a way that she deemed proper. It seems that none of them made major life decisions without consulting her.

My Aunt Marie was a sweet woman who exuded class and charm. I saw her regularly, at family events and sometimes she would stop in when we were visiting my grandparents. Actually my dad’s cousin, she was a generation older than he and all the younger cousins referred to her as “aunt.” She never married or had children of her own, but was kind and generous with her time. She always made me feel that my thoughts were important and never shooed me away as so many adults do to small children. I remember her always having perfectly coiffed hair and meticulous, stylish (yet age-appropriate) clothes. She taught me to dance the Tarantella and it was obvious that to her, family was of prime importance.

I didn’t get to know my husband’s Aunt Mary very well, having only visited a couple times before her death, but she had spunk. Despite being a tiny woman, there was no chance of her going unnoticed. Her funeral was one of the most unusual and uplifting ones I have been to. Instead of the chairs in the funeral home being arranged in rows, they were up against the walls, so that everyone could see each other. The time was spent going around the room and sharing memories. That is the kind of send-off I want.

Aunt Helen was family through marriage, but also by choice. Here was a woman who lived traditionally, yet made her own personal mark. Her husband died too young, but she went on and lived a full life. She was involved in her church and community and was skilled at domestic pursuits such as cooking, canning, sewing, knitting and crocheting. She was a wonderful conversationalist and told colorful stories. I grew to love her more each time I spent time with her. One of my regrets in life is that we ran out of time. My children were small and I was busy with their lives, so I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I would have liked.

When I am old, I want to be a character. I want to be the aunt that tells good stories, the mom that reminds kids to live their lives, perhaps someday to be the grandma that loves so incredibly much that you know it, even without being told (though rest assured, I will be telling). I look up to these strong, independent women and hope that I can make them proud.

Oh to Be a Fly on the Wall, and On the Boat, and On the Plane

By Kimberly Yavorski September 23, 2016 writing challenges

Have you ever considered what people might think if they saw what goes on behind-the-scenes at your house? Do you ever wonder what it would be like to catch a glimpse of someone else’s daily life?

Fly on the Wall is a monthly post by a group of bloggers challenged to let our readers see what it might be like to be a fly on the wall in our homes. Each post is not a single story, but a compilation of snippets, each one its own quote or event or conversation (or disaster) strung together to provide a behind-the-scenes glimpse into our lives. Today you can be a fly on the wall in 9 places at once!

fly-on-the-wall-baking-in-a-tornado

I just got home from a visit with family in Florida which involved seeing many people who are all very different. Since we live rather far from each other, we try to cram as much together time as possible in (which meant late nights talking, or should I say early mornings). Over the course of a week, I ate too much, slept too little, heard new (to me) family stories and laughed a great deal.

Though I enjoy flying, it is an indulgence I rarely have the occasion to enjoy. My favorite part is taking off, where memories flood back of trips with my grandmother. I find myself enthralled with the experience and wonder if the novelty would wear off if this were to become a regular mode of travel for me. I realized on my return flight that it never did for Grandma. For several years, she and I took an annual trip to visit my aunt, uncle and cousin, and each time she noted the takeoff with an exclamation of joy and anticipation.

Looking out the window, I noticed (as I have before) the words painted on the wing, “Do not walk outside this area.” This made me smile, not because it seems ridiculous to want to do so, but because of stories from my family history. My great, great uncle was a wing walker (among other fantastical ventures) and walked on the wings, while the plane was flying! He apparently had an issue with staying on the ground, as he also climbed skyscrapers (without ropes) and walked in parades and around town on stilts. He and his wife had a full life and it seems there are always new things to learn about them. This trip, while going through old photos, I learned that they also owned a luncheonette in Newark, N.J. in the 1950s. Though I never met Uncle Phil, I have fond memories of his wife, Aunt Betty whom I had the good fortune to spend time with as a child.

While in Florida, my parents treated us to an airboat ride in the Everglades (a first for me). Our captain was friendly and warned us that the front seats get wet (of course the men then opted for the rear ones) since the boat does not have brakes and stops only when he takes a 180. There were reports that day of an alligator and a manatee out in the mangroves, so we were off to find them. I was impressed by how quickly a boat could move in what was said to be only a few feet of water (which appeared to be true in the moments we stopped – the water was clear enough to see the rocky bottom) and enjoyed the ride. We made a couple stops where the captain gave us some background and told stories.

One stop was in Alligator Bay, where we saw several raccoons who were obviously accustomed to getting handouts as they came very close, almost climbing into the boat. (The captain pushed us away, saying they had climbed in once before.) We did get to see an alligator and were about to head out when the captain of another boat called out, asking if we had gas. I found this amusing, thinking he was joking, trying to alarm his passengers, but no, he was serious. Another boat pulled up as our captain was trying to find a way to siphon some gas into a jug and he had more luck, so we were off again. Though I enjoyed the trip, the idea of spending time trapped in the Everglades, especially after dark, was not at all appealing to me. I would love to have been a fly on the wall on that boat!

The time spent with family was much too short, but we enjoyed the time we had. My nephew found my husband a willing participant in a singalong involving “sticky, sticky waffles,” where they both got to show off an impressive British accent. (I wish I had taken video of that!) On this trip I also got to meet my dad’s cousin and his wife who were in town for the weekend. We enjoying listening to him and my dad reminisce and share stories of their youth. (Unlike many cousins today, they grew up in the same town.) It is always interesting to see how differently people remember the same story. They were surprised that each found their own father (the other’s uncle) to be stricter than the other. Stories were shared (some that their parents were never to know) and many laughs were had. The time went too quickly and we were back on a plane, headed home.

There are more stories to read. Buzz around these posts, see what you think:

Never Ever Give Up Hope

Dinosaur Superhero Mommy

The Bergham Chronicles

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Who Am I and What Do I Want to Be When I Grow Up?

By Kimberly Yavorski August 30, 2016 growing up

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As I conclude my 50^th journey around the sun, I am finding myself, in a way I never expected. Up until this point, my life has sort of fallen into place. A new mom at 21, I went directly from being a child to being a parent. Although I had choices to make, none were all about me. Up until now, everything I have done has been largely influenced by someone else’s needs. This is not to discount the influence my husband still has, his opinions have tremendous sway, but now, no lives depend on me getting it right. I can make some decisions, just because I want to.

My life took different turns than I had planned and I ended up in places I would never have expected. Motherhood was good for me, in many ways, and this fact alone caught me off guard. Despite the fact that motherhood came at a time when I didn’t expect it, I embraced it and for many years was defined by it. Like other moms, I was frequently referred to as (insert child’s name here) mom, with no name or identity. When the time approached for my youngest to go away to college, I realized I needed to redefine my role. I never have and never will be referred to as a “housewife.” Besides the fact that I personally find the term demeaning, it implies an affinity and dedication to domestic pursuits that I am utterly lacking. I do sometimes enjoy cooking, have been known to dabble in crafty projects, and enjoy creating clothing and other items from fabric, but housekeeping, well it must be done, but is not my idea of a fun day.

Although I generally do not plan anything out far in advance, I spent over a year pondering what I would do “after.” I considered going back to work full time, but kept coming back instead to the idea of writing at home full time, something I have wanted to do for a very long time.

Writing has always come naturally to me. Even at the age of 6, I wrote stories for my baby sister, on 3×5 index cards stapled together. They often starred our dogs, who patiently listened to me when I needed an audience. I switched gears through my school years, believing that writing was a dream, not a realistic way to earn a living. Sure, some people did it, but I didn’t really think I would be one.

Then my first job out of college was with a publishing company. There I was: writing and getting paid. After I had a second child, the pay didn’t warrant the costs of working, so I became a stay/work at home mom, writing pieces on a freelance basis. Eventually the demands of caring for four children sidelined the writing altogether for a while. I pushed my dream to the back, saying I didn’t have the time.

I used to think about how, if I became a well-known writer, I would answer the question, “Why do you write?” My answer was easy, “Because a writer is what I am, not what I do. Writing is like breathing, something that is part of me, not a choice.” At some point, I lost that. I realized with dismay that it had been years since I had written anything. I felt lost, empty. This frightened me. Who was I?

I was facing the end of the childhood years. My youngest was moving on, from high school and to college. For 27 years, I had been mom. Who was I now? Was there any more to me? Had there ever been? These questions prompted some serious thought.

Yes, I held other roles as well. I was a working mom for a few years, then a stay at home mom for many more. I was a soccer mom, a band mom, a color guard mom, a theater mom, a dance mom, a baseball/softball mom, a basketball mom, a scout mom, a 4-H mom. I was (insert child’s name here)’s mom, Bach’s mom, Zeke’s mom, Maggie’s mom (these last three are dogs). In doing all these things, I had learned some valuable skills and had made a difference, at least in the small part of the world I occupy. But they all included being a mom. I found myself pondering my next chapter.

As I was needed less, I found that I once again had time to read, which I quickly realized I had desperately missed. Soon I found stories forming in my head. I dusted off an old idea and started to research in earnest. A free week found me writing almost 10,000 words for a novel I had long wanted to write. Then, once again, I got tangled up in life and stalled. My youngest left for college, and it was time, but I was still stuck on details and concerned about spending much time on a project that would be years to seeing fruition. I needed some immediate results. Surfing the internet, I had an intriguing thought. There were a handful of websites with great content that kept coming across my newsfeed . Maybe I could write for some of those sites. One led to the other and I found myself reading and writing more and more.

Now I am writing, every day. Some days the thoughts can’t get on the paper fast enough. I am taking risks, pushing beyond my comfort zone. I can feel the wings opening, stretching. Like a butterfly (or if I am passionate about something, more like a dragon). I feel more alive than I have for a long time. It’s like I am a whole new me. My family, I can tell, has been amused by the new, animated me. They smile as I share my joy each time my work is accepted for publication and patiently listen to my hopes and goals. They seem to be telling me, “It’s okay, Mom, it’s your time.” I think they are on to something. I think I can make this happen. I know I am going to try.

This was first published at Parent.co http://www.parent.co/who-am-i-and-what-do-i-want-to-be-now-that-im-grow-up/

Working on the Bucket List, One Event at a Time

By Kimberly Yavorski August 5, 2016 writing challenges

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 15 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My “Secret Subject” this month was submitted by: http://www.southernbellecharm.com

Name 5 things on your bucket list and why are they there. Have you done any of them?

Working on the Bucket List, One Event at a Time

I have a confession. I am addicted to learning and trying new things. I like going to new places for vacation (though there are a few places I would like to revisit) and trying things I have never done before.

I was fortunate for 15 years to be the leader of a Girl Scout troop of older girls, with adventurous spirits. My job was basically to encourage and guide them in their interests, which took me some places I otherwise might not have gone. We started each year with a wish list of what they wanted to do and learn. The activities were diverse. We then went about deciding which options appealed to the group as a whole and which were possible given our budgetary and scheduling constraints. We had one particularly adventurous year in which two of my bucket list items were completed.

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One of these activities was whitewater rafting. I remember seeing ads about rafting trips while I was in college, but the my schedule never worked out that I could go. I had heard stories about rafting from people who didn’t enjoy it very much, but it sounded like fun to me. I have long loved being near water and have yet to find a water craft I rafting2 don’t enjoy being on. I had previously done some very small rapids in a canoe and loved the feeling of rushing down a river, catching the chute just right. The rafting outfitter we chose was excellent and everyone had a great time. With six people per raft, our group was spread among three rafts. This was so much fun that this became an annual activity for a few years, with our final trip on a “dam release day” which meant higher waters and many people being picked out of the river.

Zip lining

I have always been uncomfortable traveling at great heights along cables in motorized devices. Chair lifts and gondolas scare me; I just don’t’ feel secure. After trying a rock climbing wall on a school trip with my daughter, I realized that I felt quite secure while wearing a harness and had no difficulty with the heights. Though I realize it makes no logical sense, having myself suspended from a cable sounds safer to me than being in anything else that is suspended by a cable. Riding a zip line sounded like an interesting idea to me and was on SAMSUNG DIGITAL CAMERA my list of things to do someday, so I was excited when one of the girls suggested it. I looked into it and discovered a small ski mountain near us offered several zip line options over the warmer months. I took a deep breath to ride the chair lift to the top of the mountain (for me the scariest part) and we ran the three hour course, which included walking on cables, standing on narrow platforms surrounding trees and the exhilarating swoosh of zipping down the cable to the next platform. It was an experience I very much want to repeat. This is one activity we skipped on a visit to Kauai, but one I hope to do there at a future date (so, I guess it’s still on my bucket list).

Skydiving also came up on our wish list, but that is something that is outside of the safety limits that Girl Scouts would allow. (Having looked into it for myself, it is also outside the limits of what our troop budget would have allowed.) Again, this is something that makes no sense to many people. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane sounds like fun to me, but this one will have to wait. This is something I don’t want to do badly enough to go on my own; it would be more fun to share the experience with someone. I am also not sure about the idea of a tandem jump, I think I would rather spend the extra time (which unfortunately is also more money) to learn all the steps involved so I could go solo.

I’m not sure if it should really go on a bucket list, as it is a career goal, but I want to publish at least one novel. I would love to say an incredibly successful novel, or an award winning novel, or a best-selling novel, but I realize that those descriptors are at least partly up to chance. I have begun work on one and have more than 30,000 words to date. After completing much of it, I decided to take a different approach, but hope to have it ready to submit by the end of the year or early in 2017.

Someday I really want to take a few weeks and drive cross country. I want to take my time and stop and see the everyday things this wonderful country has to offer. IMG_7086crop The United States offers a variety of terrain and culture and I want to experience as much of it as I can. I want to meet new people, try new foods, and see new things. Besides the obvious cost savings in driving, it would be possible to see much more by taking detours along the way. I would like to someday be able to say I have visited all 50 states. (I have already been to Hawaii; I can drive to the rest or make a trip to Alaska later. I hear Alaskan cruises are wonderful.)