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"Losing the Ring in the River"
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I grew up on a farm in Nance County Nebraska. It was a fairly remote part of the state, and since we didn’t live on a gas line, heating was accomplished by burning wood and corncobs, and on special occasions, oil—which was wonderfully warm, but expensive. It wasn’t exactly “Little House on the Prairie” as my husband sometimes contends, but without central heating, winters were long. We lived in a farmhouse with a long lane connecting to the gravel road, and my sisters and I walked that lane and that gravel road to District 14, a one room country school. One of highlights of the school year was the Christmas program. This poem tells a little about that time and what it was like. I wrote it quite a long time ago, but thought you might enjoy it now.
So many writers I read about get up at 4:00 or 5:00 every day, get up to a cold dark house, go to their computers and write five hundred or so words before breakfast. I think about that and despair. I can’t do that. I’m not a morning person, and the idea of rising so early (except to drive to the airport) is absolutely foreign to me. If this is what it is going to take to be a writer, I think, then I am not going to make it.
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