Stories, Poetry and Art of My Late Wife - Episode # 0
Myra Mickey’s
Preface
The following is the biggest portion of the literary and artistic works of Myra Faye Smith Mickey. (1949 – 1993). It is everything that could be found of her writings and poetry. (she also painted and played the piano and the guitar, she was very talented.) Myra wrote constantly. She always had a pad and pencil handy to write down some passing fancy. This is the poor pitiful remnant of almost four decades of work. She died in 1993. Her work sat in boxes for twenty years after her death.
I moved many times since then. In fact I was a trucker moving constantly. Eventually I remarried. One day my lovely bride and I were moving stuff around and generally straightening clutter when we came across the boxes containing Myra's works.
Dot said. “It’s a shame that no one will ever see this.”
I jokingly replied “Why don’t you turn it into a book?”
So she did.
MY GAWD! That was a LOT of WORK! Most of it was written in pencil. Not all of the pages were numbered. Some were water stained, and sadly, much of it was missing. Dot never let little minor details stand in her way when she decided to do something. So she did. This is what Dot put together that is more or less whole.
My two lovely ladies, never having met, are incapable of making mistakes. They’re both perfect. Any errors are mine. Everything is copyrighted. Everything is fiction and as such is not representative of anyone living nor dead. Any resemblance is purely coincidental.
We miss you Myra…even those who were not fortunate enough to have met you.
Author’s Foreword
I guess I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I can’t remember when I haven’t been thinking up stories and dreaming about all sorts of things. You know the usual knight carries off the princess and such, but in my case it was usually the cowboy.
I have always been impressed with the idea of ranch life but I have never been able to experience it. I do have an uncle that lives on a ranch but I was there too little to please me. I was always the owner in my stories. Of course, you realize that was when I was young and unaware of the handicap of being a woman. Women you know do not own ranches. Their husbands do. I was to eventually learn this and have it shatter my small dreams. Well that is in the past and I’m still not a writer, but I do enjoy putting my silly words down and re-reading them several years and maybe months later.
You see, I knew I could never be a writer back in the far regions of my mind but never really wanted to accept it. You see all the good writers in my mind were men and I didn’t even want to read a woman’s work. Of course, you realize that I know better now just to set the record straight. But then, I would pretend to be a man so that I could do the exciting things and go everywhere without a woman slowing me down. You see women were silly and slow and weak and they were supposed to sit at home and let the man have all the fun.
I never did like housework or babies. They bored me and I find that they still do but you know that as a grown mature woman I still am supposed to stay at home and let all the men have the fun. So here I sit at home with a child that I love, but that I would not have had, if I had a choice. I just don’t like babies. In fact, I can’t remember when I ever did. My mother tells me that I use to go to the store with her and head for the clothes department and stay looking at clothes until she was ready to leave. This might lead one to think that there was a little bit of clothes designer in me but to look at me now you would never guess that I once had a thing for clothes. I love to be sloppy except when someone comes over.
Now what does all this have to do with being a writer? I don’t really know. I guess that is why I could never be one. My mind has a tendency to wander to the past when I was innocent of all the prejudices of being the female I just had the misfortune of being. It is really disgusting when you think about it isn’t it? I get very angry when I think about the mold they tried and I suppose to a certain extent did put me into. You know the old story. The little girl wears a dress and stays in the house helping mom make cookies while the brother is out riding the horse or the bike or mowing the lawn making some money. I just wish the liberation of women had taken place before I was born so that I could do the things that so many of the girls are getting to do now. Here I am the dumb broad who has to stay dumb because men like them that way. Oh, I know, they say that you don’t have to be dumb now but that is all theory. It is really great to think about but just try to put forth your intelligence when a child is screaming and you are told to go tend to it. Or when they disagree with you they gently let you think that you are right just to humor you when they really think that you are just female. Women don’t really have as much intelligence as men. It is just put in words to keep them happy. Actually they are just humoring us. They think as long as they keep us happy they have us hooked.
Well I guess in a sense they do.
Well enough of this. I get too excited and that isn’t any good. I suppose I should feel good having a man provide for me. But actually I feel helpless. Even if I did go out to get a job, I wouldn’t be able to make enough to live on. They would see that I was a woman and cut the salary by fifty percent. Anyway what this has to do with my being a writer I don’t know but I do feel better sometimes just getting this off my chest.
My childhood was just one big dream. No one can really have a good childhood like mine. I had a wonderful father who thought that I could do anything that I wanted to do. I loved him then and still do love him for that. My mom was kind of nice too. Of course she was the classic example of dominated female. Her father and mother did that to her. It really makes me mad to think about it. Of course, what can I do? Nothing. Oh boy, I wish that I could do it over. Lots of people don’t want to but I do. I guess that is why I don’t like children – maybe I am jealous of them.
To Be Continued
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