"It Couldn't Be Done"

Funny how little things make such a big influence on you. My grandmother made my mother memorize this poem, who in turn quoted it to us whenever we complained that something was impossible.
Funny - now I LOVE the challenge.
Funny. Buckling down "with the trace of a grin" is now my secret joy.
Funny: The adrenaline rush that comes with rolling up my sleeves and starting to sing... as I tackle that thing "that couldn't be done," and I do it.
Special thanks to Katherine Miller Boddie and Garnet Field Miller.

"It Couldn't Be Done"

By Edgar Guest

Somebody said it couldn't be done,

But he with a chuckle replied

That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one

Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing and he tackled the thing

That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;

At least no one has ever done it";

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing and he tackled the thing

That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That "cannot be done," and you'll do it

Reverse Culture Shock - one opinion.

July 19, 2008
Running up my stairs last night after watching “Maverick” with the family, I nearly stepped on a brown toad who was calmly waiting for a playful dinner to float down from the light.
Everything has changed, and yet nothing has changed. Have I changed? I feel as if I simply switched from the sur-reality in Mexico City to another reality here. Without a rigid and demanding schedule, life here also feels like a dream as I spend time with old friends and re-study my old stomping grounds.
For now, my wanderlust has been sated. I’m so glad to be back in Georgia that although the maps and postcards of dream trips still decorate my room, their sirens’ calls have been tuned out by the song of a familiar existence.
I feel older. I know that Mexico and Westhill really happened; yet it seems so long ago, as if it happened to another person – and I somehow have memories and stories floating randomly through my brain.
Yet there are obscure, indefinable aches – smelling Starbucks and remembering 3 years of weekend nights laughing with the 988 girls, teasing the green apron guys and flirting with customers – sampling and loving life. Early hours and long nights spent in the KSU library over delayed homework and laughing with the librarians. Student life – cargo pants and jeans, hoodies lounging in the hall and gossiping about the profs. Curled up in my favorite sideline seat armed with pen and coffee; listening, commenting, taking notes, LEARNING. When and how did it so suddenly end? Remembering those late brunches with Ash and Tara in our apartment, with the ghetto speaker set-up blaring our favorite tunes as we sleepily laughed and chilled. DUST. The morning sunrise ritual as we rode up above the city, through the Doors of Santa Fe and my “get ready for battle” song. Monday morning ceremony - looking over the heads of all my kids and laughing with joy and pride.
And all of this too will pass.

Home

Home sweet home.

93 degrees Fahrenheit.

GREEN trees, green grass, the smell of warm humidity and leaves.

Little burning scratches - rewards of blackberries waiting to become cobbler.

Little boys and laughs.

Old friends and lunches.

Dancing and nights on the town with the girls.

Dinners and get-togethers with all the old folks... all the new couples and wedding plans.

An amazing new place to stay - but full of old, beautiful memories.

A little pink and slight color on the skin...

ON our WAY back to GEORGIA