Are You Crazy? Give Up My What?

January 26, 2016October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 7 Comments

DAILY PROMPT: Life After Blogs Your life without a computer: what does it look like?

Oh, this is a tough one. As a culture, we have become so technically attached the thought of going without a computer or iPhone sends us into a frenzy. It’s like a smoker without their cigarettes – we don’t have a clue what to do with our hands. And, for the record, I’ve never been a smoker, but I’ve heard that is a problem when kicking the habit. But back to the topic at hand. What would I do if all my computers disappeared? My phone turned into a rotary dial, my Kindle into pages, and my iPad into a chalkboard or even better, an etch-a-sketch.

But back to the topic at hand. What would I do if all my computers disappeared? My phone turned into a rotary dial, my Kindle into pages, and my iPad into a chalkboard or even better, an etch-a-sketch.

A feeling of nostalgia swept over me just typing that sentence. Growing up, we could have never imagined the kinds of technology the future would bring to our fingertips. 2001 seemed like a space odyssey fantasy. But here we are, and the advances are truly space age.

As a young girl, I spent my days outside in the sun. Swinging, hiking in the cow pasture, riding bikes, catching lightening bugs, or daydreaming under a tree. I read book after book and wrote endless essays, poems and letters in a journal. My sisters and I talked about boys, school, each other, how to do makeup and hair, or how we could decipher the words of Mick Jagger’s song, Can’t Get No Satisfaction.

Without all this technology, I would read more, taking baking classes, spend more time at our lake house, or travel. I’d write letters to those I love and leave them with tangible words to remember me by. I’d visit my neighbors or family members more often. And, I’d learn to be still; to enjoy the quietness of life.

Technology has been a tremendous force in our lives. In many ways, it has enhanced our lives, made things easier and more convenient.

Yet, like a coin or a story, there are always two sides. The reverse side of all this wonderful, addicting, convenient technology is a disconnection, lack of intimacy, social isolation, and the inability to communicate with each other.

I’m not sure the tradeoff was worth it.

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story and look for me on Facebook at SheilaMGood, Pinterest, Bloglovin, Twitter@sheilagood, and Contently.

Excuse Me?

January 18, 2016October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 14 Comments

Photo courtesy of hubpages.com

The Daily Post Prompt: Modern Families – If one of your late ancestors were to come back from the dead and join you for dinner, what things about your family would this person find the most shocking?

My family isn’t much different than any other family. It’s blended; kids have their heads stuck in technology rather than communicating, expect more than we did, and the grandkids, are spoiled rotten (hard not to). I, like most parents, today, have been too lenient.

I come from a long line of hard working, strong, and outspoken women. They were practical, knew how to pinch a penny, keep a clean house, and their children towed the line. I grew up in the era of good manners ((ma’am and sir), respect for elders, an active participant in family chores (cooking, cleaning, and babysitting our siblings), and I understood, early on, a smart mouth was better left shut.

My siblings and I didn’t receive allowances; we worked after school as soon as were eligible, spent more time outside than inside, behaved in school (or else), strived for A’s and B’s (or else), and owning our own car was a pipe dream. We understood kids and adults were different. The adults made the rules, and we obeyed.

Today, the world, families, and our kids are a different breed, and I have no doubt, if one of my ancestors returned for a visit, they would be stunned. Oh, it wouldn’t be the endless numbers of toys, the technology, or that each child drove a car.

Nope, it would be the lack of family interaction (think cell phones & texting), the lack of courtesy and basic manners. The demand for things, the attitude that they deserve whatever they want without working for them, contributing to, or knowing getting whatever, might place a financial hardship on the parents. Of course, my kids were angels and never behaved this way. (hehe).

Of course, this is on us, the parents. We’ve relegated the responsibilities of raising kids that understand the concept of hard work, respect, community, common decency, and common-sense manners, to society.

I have no doubt my ancestor’s mouth would drop open and within seconds set us all straight.

“Excuse me? What did you just say to your mother?”

She’d be off and running and by the time she finished, we all would have felt as if we’d been to the woodshed.

Not a bad idea. Perhaps, we should bring the woodshed back.

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story and look for me on Facebook at SheilaMGood, Pinterest, Bloglovin, Twitter@sheilagood, and Contently.

Look Fear in the Face and Kick

January 9, 2016October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 18 Comments

Sink or Swim

You’ve heard the adage, sink or swim. It’s a phrase often shared when one is facing something difficult, be it a choice, future, task, or survival. When we find ourselves with little recourse in life, sometimes all we have left is to take a leap of faith.

Sink or swim is a simple, to the point, and powerful statement. It offers only two choices – success or failure. It’s also an affirmation of what each of us is capable of doing.

I left home before the age of eighteen under difficult circumstances, moved to the city, thirty minutes from my home, and rented a one-room apartment. My apartment, situated on the top floor, consisted of a bedroom, unheated kitchen (unless you counted the oven) and a shared bathroom across the hall in an old, rundown house. Located in a “bad” section of town it was, thankfully, close to city transportation.

At seventeen, in school with only a part-time job, I was on my own, and anything after that was my doing. I could either wither under the pressure, let fear paralyze me, or soar under the wings of freedom. I could either sink or swim. I chose the latter.

I learned about public transportation, memorized the bus schedule, and discovered the power underneath my legs. If the bus didn’t go in my direction, my legs did. I penny-pinched and learned the value of a dollar. I studied hard, made friends, and fought back the fear of unchartered territory with determination and confidence I didn’t feel until much later.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face… we must do that which we think we cannot.”

Two years later, I would graduate nursing school, marry, and begin a family. To this day, it was one of the greatest experiences of my life and left memories that still bring a smile to my face. At seventeen, I looked fear in the face and I kicked.

“Faith is believing that one of two things will happen. That there will be something solid for you to stand on or that you will be taught to fly.” Unknown

Call Me Florence

December 1, 2015October 21, 2016 / Sheila McIntrye Good, Author / 2 Comments

The Daily Post Prompt: Ballerina Fireman Astronaut Movie Star
When you were 10, what did you want to be when you grew up? What are you now? Are the two connected?

I don’t remember much about the age of ten. For sure, I wasn’t focused on a career. Growing up in a small town, I spent my days as a child playing outside with my sisters and brother or a friend. If anything, I thought about becoming a wife and mother.

The one thing I do remember wanting to be when I grew up was, a non-smoker. Having grown up in a smoking household, I hated the smell of smoke and the stench that permeated every surface. At the young age of nine, I made the conscious decision to set a different and healthier path for myself. I would never smoke. It was the first step toward my career and realizing what I really wanted to be when I grew up – Florence Nightingale.

~~~~~~~~

Florence Nightingale surfaced while I was holding court with three preteen boys in the basement of their home. Our parents, long time friends, were upstairs visiting. Why I came along for the visit, escapes me now.

Bored, I perched up on top of the washing machine as if I owned the world, and the boys gathered round. A precocious adolescent, developing ahead of most of my friends, I’d learned years ago my blonde hair and green eyes were an asset. A subtle flip of hair or intent gaze seemed to work magic.

All three boys stood around the washer, looking goo-goo eyed. Elbows propped on the edge and baby-fuzzed faces cupped in fidgety hands, they couldn’t take their eyes off me as I regaled them with stories of becoming a missionary nurse and traveling the world to help the sick and infirmed.

Of course, I could’ve been speaking jibberish for all they cared; adolescent boys will believe anything given the circumstances. I loved the attention using every bit of my wily teenage charm on those six sets of adoring eyes.

I’m guessing, based on the oldest boy’s level of attention, his mom spent a busy day laundering sheets the next day. Just saying, I could be pretty disarming for a young lady. And, when you’re fifteen, unmitigated adoration goes a long way feeding that demon.

I grew up in a small southern town. The middle child of three girls, and a younger brother. Two half sisters came later when Mom remarried. Maturing ahead of most of my classmates, I learned early on, when a boy in my class bumped into me, boobs created a lot of attention. He pointed at my well-developed chest and yelled for the whole class to hear, “She’s got them things.” A smart girl, I caught on fast; discovering that my assets, while unwelcome at first, had advantages.

He and his friends followed me around the playground for weeks until I had enough and reported them to the teacher. Attention, although nice could also be tiresome. It would be on my terms or not at all.

Over the years, more than those three young boys, hanging onto the side of the washer and my every word, would accuse me of sending double-whammies with my green eyes, but I digress.

As usual, when you make broad declarations at the age of fifteen, they rarely come true; mine were no exception, at least, not in the strictest sense. I didn’t do the missionary thing, not the way you think, but in 1972, Florence Nightingale followed me to nursing school.

The satellite branch of the University of South Carolina, less than an hour’s drive from home, offered the closest associate degree nursing program. With four younger kids left at home, there would be no dorm room or college campus experience for me; I’d have to commute. I didn’t mind. Contrary to my precocious adolescence, Florence and I weren’t the partying kind.

One of the first assignments I received in nursing school included keeping a personal journal to record why we chose nursing and our experiences during the first semester. Yadda, yadda, yadda. The assignment sounded juvenile to me, more like high school than college. But, to the professors, the journals were serious business, counting a third of our grade. If that’s what they wanted, that’s what they’d get, with a bit of a twist.

From day one, I signed my journal Florence Nightingale. Of course, identifying myself, on the inside cover, to get credit where credit was due. Every entry went under the name of Florence, and my professor’s reaction? Oh, my God, she loved it. She and Florence had quite the rapport going the whole semester. Based on her graded comments to each entry, you would have thought she was communicating with the dead.

Now, don’t get me wrong. A good student, I studied. While others played hearts in the canteen area, I hit the books. By the end of my first semester of nursing school, I’d learned more than the funny language of medicine or how to stick the butt of an orange (nothing exciting). In fact, my “assets” paled in comparison to what the journal and Florence taught me. I’d discovered the art of bullshit and spin; the power of words.

No doubt, I had big plans. I’d be the next Florence Nightingale, work to help cure cancer, or the next disease threatening to wipe out humanity, and I swear to God, I think my professors believed it too, but then, that might just be me. First semester – I earned an A.

I’d love to hear your comments. Talk to me. Tell me your story. And as always, you can follow me on Facebook at SheilaMGood, Pinterest, Bloglovin, Twitter@sheilagood, and Contently.