What I have to show for my weekend.

The weekend is over, so it's back to the day-job priorities. I am really really pleased with the work I did. I'll share a couple of paragraphs. It's pretty cool to think that it al grew out of unpacking a single sentence. Here's a little sample.

It’s not right to say that my daddy taught me to love cars. I was
born that way. When I was just three months old, sick as a dog with colic,
daddy rode me around in the Lincoln until I went to sleep. I would wake up
crying that high pitched miserable cry and daddy would get out of bed, go to my
rooms, wrap me up in a couple blankets and we might spend the rest of the night
driving around the city while Mama slept. It wasn’t just the wind from the
windows that soothed me, though I still like to drive with the windows open,
even in winter. I liked seeing that I was going somewhere.

Around that same time, Raleigh bought me a baby swing from Sears and Roebuck. He and my mother put it together when a flathead screwdriver and an Allen wrench.
They finally got it upright and sturdy and waited for me to start crying so they
could rock me to sleep in the pink and white contraption. I was a sickly
child, so I cried all the time. At the first whimper, Mama and Raleigh
scooped me up, strapped me in and started the swing to rocking. My whimper
morphed into something more in the category of a howl. Daddy was the one
who rescued me, told them to give it up.

While he and I were cruising all over southwest Atlanta, down by Niskey Lake, even winding through the beautiful paths at West View Cemetery, Mama and Raleigh were takingthe baby swing apart and fitting it back in the cardboard box.

All thatback and forth did nothing for me. I needed forward motion and the quiet
hum of a well-tuned engine.

When I was twelve, my dad took me out for my first driving lesson. Or course I had been behind the wheel even as a little bitty girl. It’s illegal now to drive a car with a three year old in your lap, her little palms on the wheel, but in the 1970s nobodycomplained. I can still remember stretching my hands grip the steering
wheel, Daddy saying “There you go girl. There you go.” When I was
twelve it was time to take things to the next level. It was time for me to
become a real driver, although the state wouldn’t allow it until I was sixteen.

Not bad, considering its humble beginnings...