I having been writing since the age of 7, already off to a notorious start when I wrote my very first poem. It was a beautiful handwritten piece of prose that I promptly presented to my grandmother as a gift. This now-legendary family document was researched carefully by me for words that would complete verses by rhyming with new “grown up” words I had just learned. The words I selected as the winners were “truck”, “hit” and “runt”. Insisting she wanted to save my gift for a special occasion, my grandmother had chosen to wait and read my first poem aloud to an audience of her church friends at the women’s faculty board annual potluck lunch, one fateful Sunday.

Imagine the surprise of all in attendance, to say the least, when she read my literary genius word for word to a stunned group, apparently not comprehending the content as she spoke. Bursting with pride for her first grandchild, she continued to read loudly and sentimentally; on and on, issuing forth an unholy barrage of childish, dirty, limerick-y half poems whose meanings were perfectly clear, if not professionally crafted.

A bit different from the wholesome I-love-Jesus prose she was expecting, although I do think He was mentioned in the content once or twice.






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