Here is the Final Selfie for Digital Storytelling…
It’s absolutely dreary outside. The kind of day that just makes you want to roll over and go back to sleep. Raindrops pelting against my window and making me wish that I could fall asleep…but I can’t.
It’s the kind of day that makes you think of all the sad things in life. I miss my parents. They have been gone too long. I miss my Dad’s sense of humor and my Mom’s wisdom. Who am I kidding? I miss everything about them. I miss them most on rainy days.
When I was a kid, my Mom would always find something to do for my brother and I. She’d pick one of us to play D.J. and she’d teach us to dance or we’d cover the table with newspaper and finger paint. She always had something up her sleeve to make the rainy days better.
My Dad was a born comedian. He always made me smile. From the time I was a baby, he would light up the room for me. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t make me laugh. He wrote his own jokes and they were mostly corny, but they were always funny. When I broke and dislocated my wrist, he sat with me in the Emergency Room waiting room telling bad jokes and making me laugh. I could use that sense of humor now when things are broken. Things seem broken all the time.
My parents always had the answer. Even if the answer was something you didn’t want to hear. They would make the hard answers easier to take by telling you that it would all work out and that they would see you through. I miss the safe place to fall, the place where they know you and love you despite all the stupid mistakes you’ve made. I miss that most of all.
Someday, I hope that my daughter will remember me with the same fondness I remember my parents. It is a cruel twist of fate that we don’t understand how important and amazing our parents are until we are older. Until we fail at being like they were. Until we can’t say thank you for being so great. Until rainy days come down on you so hard that you want to cry and run for the unconditional love that only they could provide.
Saori, Stephanie and I created this video PSA about the Train A Dog, Save A Warrior project, which trains and provides service dogs to veterans of any war suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder/Syndrome, Traumatic Brain Injury and Military Sexual Assault disorders.
I marvel at her talent. Not just that she can draw, lots of people can draw. Her drawings are so different from the rest. Not just because she’s my daughter. I like her drawings. Not because I have to…but because I want to see them and I can’t wait to see what she does next and what the world will make of them.
She started when she was four. She didn’t scribble like most children. She drew. Simple figures…at four. She would see something in a cartoon and she would copy it and then, she’d make it her own. I was so impossibly proud of her. It was more than just being her Mother. I encouraged her and nurtured her love of art. Books, videos and anything I could find to help her when she struggled with something. Art manuals that spoke about color, composition, faces, body angles, whatever she needed to keep growing and moving forward.
Her imagination and her style grew and developed before my eyes. My daughter was an artist. She didn’t draw happy little houses with flowers in the yard. She drew characters, she created creatures that lived only in her head. Some of the images were beautiful…some were disturbing. They were all breathtaking to me. As she grew she drew people that I knew and more importantly, she drew what was in her head and in her heart. She made me laugh at the ridiculous and weep at the heartbreaking images that flow from her at the drop of the pen or the pencil on paper or the swish of the brush on canvass or the stylus on the tablet. She cannot be defined. She cannot be pigeonholed. She cannot be stopped. She is art to me…the only creation that I can hold a claim on.
All images used property of Kayla McCoy, used with permission.
This is a story about my Uncle Tom. He was a U.S. Marine and the strongest man I know.
I’ve been told, through the years, to write what you know. After envisioning some grand thoughts and idea for the perfect mobile story, I realized that the story WAS the story. So, here it is…
Storify Story – Pedorazzi:Kids Are Not Public Property!
I decided to do my Storify story about celebrities and the rights of their children. Many of the children of celebrities are being harrassed by paparazzi and traumatized by their actions. Below is the link to my story.
Light fluffy flakes of snow falling soundlessly outside my bedroom window. Branches loaded down with thick heavy snow and traffic nearly non-existent on the usually busy street where I live. According to the little band across the bottom of my tv screen – everything is closed or closing.
I remember long ago days when the sight of this much snow would mean no school. No having to wake up early, pull on boots that were too tight around my chubby calves, a heavy wool coat, a scarf, hat and a pair of gloves that I could only ever find one of, unless I didn’t need them. The scarf tied around my head, so that only my eyes were uncovered, so that the wind wouldn’t take my breath away and that warm moist feeling on your face from breathing through the knitted material.
Then, the sound of my brothers and I, running through the house, playing hide and seek and my mother herding us up, and sending us out to the back yard to play or out front to shovel the walk before “your father gets home.” The plan was always to build an amazing snow man or better yet, a fort, so we could have someplace to hide when the other neighborhood kids wanted to launch a full on offensive against us in a snowball fight. We’d get the bottom of the snow man built and turn our attention to self-defense and manage to get about a 2 x 2 foot fort that wouldn’t protect us against anything. The joy of traipsing through an untouched back yard full of snow up to your knees is something that every child should experience. The unimaginable pleasure of making snow angel’s and watching as the snow drifted lazily onto your face, a snowflake catching on your eyelid for a second and then melting down your face.
Of course, the best part of the day, when you came into the house, dragging half the snow in the back yard with you and the smell of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup cooking on the stove top. Mom would only break long enough to secure the snowball that your brother brought with him in the freezer, so we could show Dad when he got home. The hot, creamy tomato soup sliding down the back of your frozen throat, heating you up from the inside and smiling huge smiles just because it was a snow day and you still had hours to color in coloring books, or watch a movie or listen to your favorite songs and dance around the living room while your brother played disc jockey. Snow days were the best days…days that stick to you like melted cheese on your face.
Looking out the window, snow still falling steadily, I wonder how something so magnificently innocent could become days of worrying about snow tires, cancellations, closings, transportation and snow removal. Those days of wonder and frolic turn into days of panic, alarm and dread. I haven’t caught a snowflake on my tongue or eyelid in thirty years. What has changed, though? I have a back yard. I have a front walk. My freezer is not so full that I can’t fit in a snowball. We have cheese, bread and tomato soup in store. Why am I sitting regretting days gone by and memories that fill my heart with the joys of childhood? Watch out neighborhood kids, Ronan and I are on our way!
Welcome to my world. This blog will attempt to paint a picture of my life as it is now and reflections on my past and my hopes and dreams for the future. I am 51 years old. I started this formal educational journey at 50; however, I have had quite an informal education in the form of life. It has been a bumpy but extremely enjoyable ride and I wouldn’t trade anything or anyone in my life (well, maybe a few). My one true regret would is that I didn’t start this adventure much earlier. I sometimes feel I’ll never have enough time to learn everything I want to learn, but I’m sure that is true for someone who started this path when they were younger, as well. During a conversation with my best friend, she said that it was hard being middle aged. I remarked that at 50, I was only middle aged if I made it to 100. Truly it was the impetus I needed to kick start this degree plan.
I never realized how important it was to me to be able to communicate my thoughts and feelings to others. In the process of “finding myself” (God, I hate that term!), I have discovered so many things about Kelly J. Lynch-McCoy. Some of the things I have learned haven’t been the greatest discoveries; however, they have been pretty amusing. Which brings me to the subject matter of this blog…I am a 50 year old wife, mother to my pride and joy, Kayla, and friend to many. I have a 19 month old great nephew, Ronan, that is my constant companion and source of such joy, it is impossible to measure, that lives with me, along with his amazing Mom and Dad, Mary and Matt. So, I will post updates, anecdotes and comment on items from the news and entertainment industry. Stories, both fictional and non-fictional, stories to delight the senses are what I will attempt to produce in this blog. And…the adventure continues…