Eileen Loveman Daily Posting

Every now and then I sit back and think about the choices I’ve made and the directions taken; some of them have been great, and others, not so great.   But I’ve never been one to really worry about the destination, anyway.  The fun was in the route traveled to get there.

These last few years have been especially exciting because the drive to where I was going has been slower.  It sounds like a contradiction in itself, doesn’t it – how can going slower be exciting?

In other times, the goal was to pack as much as I could into one day; it was a necessity born out of having children close together in age.   The limitations were obvious, be they physical, practical or even whimsical – I was only going to get someplace as fast as situations and circumstances would allow, and the time allotted by fate, karma or God.

More often than not it was like banging my head on concrete slabs, the frustration so real for me I could taste it.  When they were finally old enough to not be where I was all the time, other obligations of life seemed to take their place.  The sense of humor instilled in me by my father (“Laugh, dammit, it’s funny!”) came rising to the top of every crisis and chaotic adventure, allowing us all to survive with our personalities intact, and with just a little bit more wisdom in our knapsacks.

I am, however, a slow learner.

Perhaps it is because I am now able to sit back and analyze the ramifications of decisions and choices that I can afford to ramble on and get to where I’m going somewhat slower and with out much fanfare.  Signing on to a writer’s website afforded me the ability to travel in a direction I never thought possible, or even thought of at all.   I’ve gotten the enviable job of interviewing the mighty and the meek, the artistic and the bland, unsung and not so quiet heroes - all in one little town.   Beautiful water color paintings painted by retired architects and poetry written by farmers, its all in there waiting for me in one gigantic ball of adventure.

Putting my thoughts to paper brought a job at a newspaper, with the luxury of covering not only the coming and going of small town life, but to also share my heart with the community in which I live, and those communities who live far away.  I have become syndicated in a round-about sort of way – mothers and grandmothers who enjoy my thoughts make sure their children in other states read me by sending them subscriptions.  I am read in Alaska and New Jersey, Ireland and Spain, a comical paradox if ever there was one – even I couldn’t have made that one up.

Realities of life are forever looming, however, and the small sense of being ‘recognized’ still doesn’t pay the bills.  I have to get up and go to work like everyone else.   Until the Great American Novel is written, I will have to be content with my employer – which is not a hard thing to do, by the way – and to balance the both sides of this wonderful life I have been blessed with.

The hardest decision I have to make now is whether to keep working another hour to get the overtime, or make the 7:00 pm interview I had with the proprietor of Pumpkin Town.

Rest assured, Pumpkin Town always wins.