My Writing Life 1: The Background

Mike DePung — Post 2

I plan on posting something every day for the next month. My first post of February 3 reveals my motivation for writing; therefore, my next few posts will focus on my writer’s journey. I think we can all benefit from one another’s stories. Mine begins here. (I first posted this in a bit different form on my website, but I think only two or three people might have read it!)

What impulses of the heart, gently whispered messages, do I remember, do you remember from childhood? How amazing when I think back! I actually am aware of a number of times when my heart spoke to me. When very young, I didn’t question it; I just enjoyed knowing and settling into whatever it was.

For instance, I recall the times when we visited my maternal grandparents. They lived in a small southeastern Missouri town called Parma with a population of 250. They didn’t have hot running water in their small pre-WWII, immaculate house. For all hot water needs, my grandmother boiled water on the stove; the stoves for cooking and heat were powered by a propane gas tank outside the kitchen window, masked by burgeoning hydrangea bushes. No washing machines and dryers there — clothes were done on Mondays on a very tall, skinny stock pot on top of the stove. Grandmother would add the clothes to boiling water, stir for awhile with a wooden stick, scoop them out and wring them over the sink one piece at a time, and then take each piece directly outside to hang on the line that she would string up and take down every week; she thought it was tacky and ill-cultured to leave a clothes line up all week. They used a septic system, which made my grandmother very conscious of not filling it up, which meant that the toilet was only flushed once a day. I learned a lot about making do with what I have at my disposal and doing it in a dignified way.

At five forty-five every morning, my grandmother would turn her Zenith, Bakelite-case, tube radio up loudly so that the southern gospel sounds of “The Old Camp Meeting Hour” pierced through the cardboard thin walls of the house. The theme song was, I believe, Ferlin Husky’s “On the Wings of a Dove.” I still hear it clearly in my memory: “On the wings of a snow white dove, God sends his pure, sweet love. On the wings of a dove, God sends us his love.” While my grandparents would never have called it this, there is something to be said for positive, consistent messages, affirmations, at the beginning of every day, something to be said for routine that allows us to happily move through whatever the day may hold.

In fact, when we were there, my sister and I would have to help my grandmother dust every day and beat her feather mattress with a broom and water the plants and sweep the front and back porches. I especially liked to dust the old Silverstone floor stand radio; I found it intriguing with far away cities and countries on the dial. We never had to do chores at home, but the comfort and security of that little, musty smelling house was one that I could just collapse into, and the life energy in that house from my grandparents would simply fold its loving arms around me, and I was safe and comforted. I heard my heart there many times: Enjoy this. Accept the love. Relax here and do not fret. Laugh. Listen. Learn.

Hearing my heart as a child set attuned me to recognize it many years later: you are a writer.