Weeji's+Page



I am a 9th grade Physical Science Teacher at Conway High School East.

I have no idea why I'm here! ;) I am here to discover that I might be a writer after all.

I am also a mom to Katie, age 5, and Earl, age 9 months.

I love this quote: "One might say that the task of any writer is to make the familiar new and the new familiar." --Richard Louth

Stolen from a friend:

Skip Day
A crisp autumn day Double date planned that night Free from school Four cramped into a sports car

On their way for a treat topped a hill The “other guy” wasn’t really other But a family friend And he was over the line

The black marks tell the story All too well Two at the scene One was lost a bit later

The Homecoming Queen was never crowned Her boyfriend was never the same She had shielded him The definition of tragedy

I was leaving the gym when we were told Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it

The funerals were in that gym Hundreds attended Songs were sung Among dozens and dozens of red roses

A week later the same gym Hosted the Homecoming game Two missing a Maid and a Queen And a King with bruises still visible

A small town changed forever.


 * Stream of Motherhood**

We are almost out of milk. What else do I need from the store? Probably better get another pack of diapers. And a refill of Spray and Wash. Did all of that laundry get put away? I need to sort the stuff Katie has outgrown. When did she get so tall? She needs to wear shorts because she has gymnastics. I need to check into swim lessons for both her and Earl. He loves his bath, so I hope he’ll like the pool. Gotta get a birthday gift for that pool party this Saturday. What time does it start? What time is the t-ball game? It’s all in my phone. I need to reply to that text message. Where did I put my phone? Here it is on the couch. And there are the shoes I couldn’t find yesterday. I’ll put them away, real quick. What did he just ask me? “They are on the shelf next to your watch.” My watch... … What did I come in here for? Oh, yes, my watch. And some earrings. But not big ones, that Earl can grab. I need to get yesterday’s necklace out of the diaper bag. I’m glad he didn’t break it. Mom gave it to me. She’ll be here on Tuesday. I need to figure out what we’ll have for dinner. Guess I’d better go to Kroger. I think we’re almost out of milk.


 * Origins**

My parents are not hippies. I get asked that a lot. And if you knew them, you’d know how hilarious, even ridiculous, that question is. My teetotaler mother and my reserved father. Hippies? Not even close.

I, Etta Louise, am named after my parents. My mother’s name is Ettamarie and my father’s was Louis. It’s a tradition. My older brother and sister are named after grandparents. It just so happens that that gives them the less unusual names of Ann Marie and John Lyle. But it does seem odd to some—John, Ann and Weeji.

Weeji…it is the name that practically everyone, except telemarketers, calls me.

I looked like my dad when I was an infant. People called him Louie. When I was two weeks old, my mom was playing with me and called me her “little Louie-gee”. My brother and sister heard “Weeji” and asked if they could call me that. My mom agreed and my dad decided on the spelling. I’ve been Weeji ever since.

This, of course, is the story as it was passed on to me. I often remark that I didn’t get a say in my nickname and if I had tried to complain, they would have just stuck a pacifier in my mouth.

But I love this name. I feel more like a Weeji than an Etta. It fits my outgoing, often goofy, personality. It expresses my unique and playful nature. It makes me memorable.

My husband said “Weeji” in our wedding vows. When he says “Etta” it makes me giggle because it sounds so unnatural.

I had always believed that when I reached adulthood I would have to say goodbye to this moniker that has become the definition of me. But it has stayed with me, following me from job to job. Many of my friends don’t even know what my real name is.

Or maybe they do.

Maybe it’s Weeji.


 * Rediscovering Beauty (Work in Progress)**

Children have a wonderful way of helping, no, //forcing// you to stop and see beauty. Especially at an inappropriate hour. Or maybe it’s at these so called inappropriate times that they have to try harder to make us pause and look.

“Momma… momma… momma, momma, momma…” “//What?!?”// “LOOK!”

It did not surprise me at all to see that when the social experiment of the violinist playing in a busy train station was conducted, it was the children who wanted to stop and listen while the adults rushed by. Children don’t yet understand the thieves of beauty—schedules, deadlines, projects. These distractions don’t exist in their world. Not until we, as loving, caring adults, force these restraints upon their innocent lives.

As a mom, I try very hard to take the time to listen to and look with my daughter. In the past five years, I have gotten to glimpse through her eyes and listen with her ears. And I’ve gotten to laugh at some of the things that were so new and spectacularly ridiculous when seen through her filter.

There was the winter when we had snow. Lots of it. And as we drove around town she noticed the little evergreen holly bushes that are in front of so many businesses. They all had a thick layer of snow on top of them.

“Momma! Look at those!” “What, sweetheart? The bushes?” “Yeah. They look like cupcakes!!!”

And they did. They looked like perfectly iced cupcakes in green paper.

She giggled with excitement as we saw big cupcakes and small cupcakes and really, really big cupcakes all over town. And I laughed and smiled with her. I was proud of her imagination. I was thrilled with her observation skills. I was reminded of the beauty and fun a snowfall can entail.

There are the times that I have taken her to my classroom. She loves all classrooms because she likes to write on the board, but her momma’s classroom is best. Along with the white board and markers, I have stamps and an ink pad. I have a drawer of Katie Things where she stores some crayons and markers and a small pair of scissors. Even better, though, is that in addition to all this regular school stuff there are beakers, graduated cylinders, and goggles.

“Momma, you’re a scientist, right?” “Yes, baby.” “And you are also a teacher, right?” “Yes.” “And you get to use all of this stuff?” “Yes.” “Do your students get to use this stuff?” “Sometimes.” “I can’t wait until I’m big enough to be in your class!”

Sometimes, I give her a cup of water and some of those enchanting beakers and cylinders and I let her play. She wants me to watch her “do magic”. It’s the same type of magic that she does with her containers in the bathtub. Pouring and measuring. Transferring and mixing. I glance up when I can. If I feel I can take the time from my appointed tasks, I will show her some of my own magic. Such as putting a paper towel in the bottom of a beaker, inverting the beaker and submerging it in water. This traps air in the beaker, forming a barrier. When I lift it from the water and she pulls out the still dry paper towel, she thinks I am the most astounding person in the world.

“You can do that because you are a scientist, momma. You are smart.” “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Then there are the words. Oh, the preposterous words that so delight my darling girl! You and I would think them commonplace, but not her.

“What city is this, momma?” “Plumberville.” “Plumber. //Ville??// That’s a funny name for a town!”

She feels the same way about Morgan, Marion, Sherwood, Maumelle (which she thinks is spelled Mom-melle) and Beebe, just to name a few. Towns being named after words she knows—plumbers and wood and BBs—is ridiculous. The idea that the name of a town can be a person’s name is equally bizarre to her. And I think it is to me too.

“What ‘cha doing?” “Putting my clothes in my wardrobe.” //“Wardrobe?!?// That’s a funny word! Isn’t it a funny word, momma?”

Her giggles irrupt during these exchanges. Sometimes she over exaggerates her exuberance by acting out of breath and ending with a very loud sigh.

As we drive through the local shopping center:

“Dress Barn? It’s not even a //barn//! Why do they call it that?”

More giggling. Always giggling. And it is contagious. The giggles themselves are beautiful. A beauty I get completely caught up in.