Childhood Treasures by @Roccoco_a_GoGo

I loved this post for what all it shares. The memories and the photograph. Click through and check it all out and support his post. @Roccoco_a_GoGo

One reason I liked it is because my parents sold pretty much every toy I had. I only have maybe 3 or 4 things from when I was a kid. Having amnesia, it would be nice to have more things to maybe try and bring back some of those memories. Not having physical things with attachments to them to see and touch is a bit sad at times. Maybe a lot of times.

Life is too short to drink bad wine

Nostalgia A collection of my past or suggestions of childhood rest on this old suitcase.

My childhood swimming

In Memory’s vast ocean

Unclear in the depths


La duchesse d’Erat has introduced a weekly challenge and has suggested a list of your Childhood Treasures; A toy, a smell, a Proustian madeleine,something from the school playground, or maybe a crazy laugh.

I found thinking back on my childhood to identify treasures very difficult. I was very blessed to have a magical childhood so to extricate 6 treasures from it is difficult. To objectify a time is difficult in itself but when childhood to me remains more of feelings and emotions than events or items it becomes even harder.

I collected a few items around the house which do remind me of some treasured memories and share them below.

List of my Childhood Treasures

1/ My first teddy bear…

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The Three Ladies In My Life by @RobertHughes05

Here is my #ThankfulThursdays post and why I help on Hugh’s blog at times. Sure, if you look a the photo of him from days gone by we look almost like we could be brothers, but it’s the heart of this man that makes people thankful to know him.

This post explains why Hugh was absent for a time.

Loves Touch

Kisses haunt my lips,

With a quivering loves touch,

Release my pleasure.

Man and women kissing just lips black and white photo

(the third of my haiku for my prompt challenge words haunt & release, screams pain, scent of fear)


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Inspiration in the Leaves of Autumn

Inspiration in Loss.

More than likely some of you are looking at those three words and thinking of sports.  As they came to mind sports did not. But they apply just as readily. If you follow college football in the U.S. of A. and like your team mascots in the feline variety with stripes and/or confusingly have a mascot that isn’t even your actual team name mascot, you perhaps do not see inspiration in loss today. But never fear, the other teams are inspired by your losses. Your teams have done a fine service to canine fans everywhere.

from wikipedia

For me, as I write this, I am thinking of Autumn here in the United States and the loss of the leaves as they fall from the trees. I see them outside my window as the wind blows and they look like brightly colored snowflakes. Very large brightly colored snowflakes.

This time of year brings a bit of a feeling to me. Nostalgia? I wonder if it is possible. Even without memories I can think of, somehow I believe they must be buried inside somewhere because I get this feeling of brisk mornings outside as I go into the school building and late afternoons waiting to play football on a Friday night. The skeletal like trees barely hanging on to that last cheerful bit of color are just like my football team in school and any possible lead it ever had . . . give up dear tree, you are going to lose it.

Sometimes I wonder if those are memories or things I’ve read about and learned lately. But leaves falling from the trees here now are like worries falling away, or dare I say it, the loss of friendships.

We spend time in agony as we lose a friendship for whatever reason. We drift apart. We don’t connect any longer. We perhaps don’t communicate in the right way. For me, I literally lose the memory of a person that was a friend. And often times it’s really no fault of either friend.

I’ve learned a lot this past year, and one is to push through loss and look at how I can go forth because of that loss. Yes, because of that loss.

Have you ever really noticed what people do with leaves? They put them in scrap books and press the leaves to save them, like photograph memories. Some even take leaves and press them into clay to imbed the pattern of them so that memory will be forever in a work of art. Some rake up the leaves and have their children jump into a big pile and have fun. Those old friends are useful, even if no longer what they once were. Each leaf falling to a new purpose somewhere else for someone else.

I recently read an article that said you should mow over those leaves and give the nutrients back to the earth, the grass, like mulch instead of raking them up. I am not sure about mowing over my lost friends. I think that would be illegal somehow. And I am not really into Chianti and Fava Beans.

I use losses as a way to put feelings into writing scenes in novels, writing this article for my blog, and in truth perhaps freeing up a bit of myself for other things. Yes, freeing up time. That is a rather sad thing to think about. For a writer time is something rare. As a friendship somehow begins to crumble there is a lot of time put into thinking about it and feeling about it.

Don’t feel guilty about thinking of something like ‘now I have time for . . .‘ It’s okay, think it. It doesn’t mean you care about that friend any less. You simply are accepting what has happened, putting it into perspective, and finding something positive to take from it.

Let those negative thoughts of what you have lost go. Move on. Push through. Use any cliche that works for you. Just do it. Just beat it. It’s on like Donkey Kong. Once you pop you can’t stop.

Inspiration in Loss. I am using loss to inspire me to fulfill my dreams. To not waste time because things really can be and are lost in a moment. You have a dream, a goal, then go for it.

Every inspiration and every drive for a goal is lined with beautiful leaves.


Inspiring times are those not so easy.

Inspiring times are those that make you feel queasy.

Inspiring times are ones are perhaps not of your making.

Inspiring times are, however ones for your taking.


See y’all next time,


You can follow me in all those places noted on the side over there  if you like. If not, hope you pass this way again.

2014 © Copyright-All rights reserved by

Moments are Worth

Ron Overlook 2

There are delicate moments in time

They are fragile in their forming

And in their care

We carelessly disregard their existence


What happens when your moments are shattered

When they are taken and broken and battered

When you have none to even hold onto

When cracks are formed for them to escape through


We take our precious pieces for granted

Never giving them a second thought

We rely on them to be there

But one day an attempt to find might be for naught


Have I loved

Do I have friends

Do I have someone who loved me

Will they find me in the end


What if they don’t reach out

What if I continue to drift

I will never even know

What pieces I have missed


Moments are worth remembering if they are worth having

Take heed of what you do with them

For in a  split second of time

You just might lose . . .


2014 © Copyright-All rights

Answers Escape Me

Answers Escape Me

Copyright-All rights reserved-© 28, 2014.









Wonders never cease,

While questions abound around,

Answers find escape.


Copyright-All rights reserved-© 28, 2014.

The Drum Beats no Longer

The Drum Beats no Longer

by: Ronovan

The Daily Prompt today asked about a musical instrument. It surprises me sometimes where a few words in print can lead you back to another life.

My bio-father was a musician, that is to say when he wasn’t doing other things for money. He recorded at Sun Records in Memphis, TN. Yes THAT Sun Records. And yes he was a truck driver. No, he wasn’t Elvis. But he was from Tupelo, MS. He was a drummer and singer primarily.


I don’t know if I ever heard him sing for certain. I had his record once until I smashed it into a million pieces and threw it away.


I’m told I would be placed on the side of a pool table and shoot pool as an infant and entertain the people while he performed. But things are passed down from one generation to the next. For me, I have rhythm. I can keep a beat without a thought.


Everything became a drum when I was tiny. Both sides of my family were musical. My maternal grandfather was a singer as well. Both musical men ended up leaving their families.


I was discouraged greatly in regards to music. I guess maybe it was because musicians were associated with wandering men in my family, or bad men. Now I write words to songs that I cannot put music to. I hear it in my mind but cannot put it to paper.


With my concussion and the results I cannot listen to music any longer. I guess finally they’ve won. No more music possibilities for me. I still write songs, but they are poems now. The reader can make their own music to match what they feel.


I never look at the bad as bad. You can always use it for something good. Sure, it’s bad for you but you can use that experience in life to help someone else. It only stays bad if you let it stay bad.


Much Respect


© Copyright-All rights 03, 2014.

Church Playground Memories

Church Playground Memories

by: Ronovan

 After I came home from the hospital even I knew something was missing, but I didn’t know what. I just felt incomplete somehow. For a person suffering from amnesia that probably doesn’t sound unusual, but this was something that I just knew was missing, I could feel it.

But I only had the feeling when I went to the doctor’s office, or some type of testing. My clothes were laid out for me. I had my wallet, keys (although not allowed to drive), a 10 dollar bill, and a pen. Apparently I always carry a pen.

My belt was in place, all of my clothing was the way it should be. It really bothered me though. I put it down as possibly my not driving. Maybe I just wanted to be the driver since I always drove everywhere. Perhaps I just was not accustomed to being on the passenger side of the car looking around.

Then one day it hit me. There was a burning in my pocket. I noticed each time I left the house, not actually my own house, that my right pants pocket felt lighter than it should. There was a spot that didn’t feel right. Even looking down at my pocket when seated there was something odd about how it appeared.

A flash of yellow came to me. And that made me think of the word, ‘pecan’. I wasn’t able to speak yet but I quickly wrote it down and shoved it toward the driver. She looked at it.

“Do I have a pecan?”

“Yes,” she said.

I held my hands out and shrugged.

“I don’t know where it is,” she said.

I quickly scribbled down my flash.

“Yellow toy box.”

“Yes. I know what you mean, beside your chair.”

A few days later it arrived.

I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a pecan before. They are oblong and pointy on the ends, but not this one. This one glows and looks like polished wood. When the light hits it there is character and grooves you don’t see in a normal pecan shell.

When I touched it for the first time again, the smoothness of the shell was comforting and familiar. I instantly held it to my ear and shook it. I could hear the rattling inside.

My eyes closed and I ran my finger tips around the shell slowly and could feel the ridges that you normally didn’t realize were there. Maybe they normally weren’t. Then I slipped it into my pocket and the weight was right. My balance was right. Just a few ounces but it was right. When I sat down, the sight was right.

My mind tingled with it with me again.

“For you, Daddy.”


“Yeah. I found it for you.”

Of course the smile crossed my face and a big hug was given. “Then it goes right here and never leaves,” I said. I slipped it into my pocket. The smile crossed his face.

A pecan as a prized possession may sound a bit odd to some, but six years earlier my little son had walked up to me with a smile from the church playground and given it to me. To him it may have been just a find that day.

The grey shell had turned into polished brown like the finest piece of furniture. But this hadn’t been done by a machine. This had been done by years of being in my hands through the day, and living inside my pocket forever being polished.

My Pecan - Copy

Now that I had it back I was more at ease. Every night he comes to me and asks “Do you have your thing?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” He now knows how special it is to me. He knows I remembered it. He knows I know him. He knows I don’t want to lose it.

Some prized possessions may have monetary value to them, even family heirlooms, but for me, a moment of innocence that can never be captured again . . . that’s my prized possession. The pecan is a reminder of it, but the real possession is the memory of it. That’s what I have, that memory. Memories of your children can bring you back to life. That’s what happened to me.

Maybe you have a memory. Perhaps riding along with your child in your lap in a golf cart, or smiling up at you with such love in their eyes at an ice cream parlor, or giggling when you tickle them. Those are prized possessions.

Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites© 27, 2014.

The Notebook: A Life Lesson

The Notebook: A Life Lesson

by: Ronovan


“Hey, Ron, check out that box over there and see what we can get rid of,” said Chet.


I pulled the box to me and began going through the sweaters, magazines and umbrellas. I wondered how people could lose so many things in a church and just not think of what happened to them.


The Bible was beautiful. I opened it and saw the name, Orthel Hopkins. I shook my head. His mother should have been looking for this already. Or maybe he had been hiding something else in his Bible cover so she didn’t know yet. I set it aside and would sneak it to him another time.

Read. The word jumped out at me. It was my hand writing. It looked like one of my notebooks. But why was it here?

“. . . had a great time and posted some fun vacation pictures for you. . .”

“Chet, I’ll be back later.” I didn’t wait for an answer. I only lived minutes away. The car didn’t even have time to cool inside before I was pulling into the driveway. Continue reading

Pine Needle Forts and Tree Root Skating Rinks

Pine Needle Forts and Tree Root Skating Rinks

by: Ronovan

Pine Trees

At 12 years of age your priorities for home are different than as an adult. My father wanted land and a place for a huge garden. That meant country. For me country meant no friends, and no cable TV.


15-20 minutes outside of the nearest town is where we ended up. Not another kid for me to play with anywhere around, even though the school wasn’t far from the place. We lived in a trailer back then. It was nice and my father expanded on it quite a bit, I think that’s why I dislike the sound of power saws and that burning wood smell that it produces.

Continue reading

Maw Maw’s Lovin’

Maw Maw’s Lovin’

by: Ronovan

 Maw Maw

“Down home Southern cooking can’t be beat.

It makes us well rounded from our head to our feet.”


That may not be an actual saying down here in the South. By the South I mean the losing side of the Civil War in the US. Although I consider that loss to be winning in the grand scheme of things, don’t you? But that saying fits because of grandmothers in kitchens across these Southern states.


For me a celebration was any meal my MawMaw cooked. MawMaw would be Southern for Grandmother for those trying to speak the language, Southern that is. I’m looking at my New York and Ohio friends out there.


As a kid you sat either at a card table or at the coffee table. Be slow and it was the coffee table in front of the TV. Quicker and you were closer to seconds of the good stuff. You picked your preference. I didn’t watch TV.

Continue reading