From Left to Write: Afterwards

Tall black rubber rain boots, navy chino shorts, topped with a nearly too small Pokémon t-shirt.

Utilizing her new skill, she pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, heading for the screen door.

Metal on metal sounds as she slides the worn screen door open, calling out, “I’m coming, Dad!  Wait for me!”

Rain boots making her tiny feet look and sound bigger than they are race across the deck as her ponytail dances on her shoulders, absolutely tickled with delight to help her Dad with yard work.

An audible gasp escapes my lips, caught in one of those rare moments when life simultaneously stands still and flashes forward.

She’s a decade older, a sixteen year old girl a few feet from me, embracing life, even the simple moments.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from the little girl in front of me or from the teenager I’ll one day meet.

She’s burned into my heart now.

Looking forward to when the two girls will become one, but for now, I’ll hold on to the li’l girl and her small hands that still look for encouragement and guidance a while longer.

 

 

This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma in Lupton's suspense thriller. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Writer's Workshop: { Seventh Grade Bookends }

 

Boarding the yellow school bus, the last stop on the route, was hell.

There were a lot of us waiting to climb aboard.  There were never enough seats left.  One child made the less-than-brilliant move to mark my li'l brother's neck with ballpoint pen.  It was the '80s and I'd bet my favorite Bic pens were the culprit - I preferred blue, but that day black was used.

That bus.  That bus stop.  Those kids.  I couldn't stand it.

I needed another method of transportation to the seventh grade.  Definitely.

Feet.  They worked.  Often.

On the days I needed to go faster, a bicycle worked.  Black and white ten speed.  Pedals turning.  Chain cycling.  Wheels rotating.  Faster.

Two get-myself-to-school memories are etched into the ol' brain.  Perfectly placed bookends.

Fall.  And then falling.  Autumn coats the air.  Pumping the pedals to climb the last hill to campus.  Two nameless boys in front as I miss the rhythm, pulling a right leg too early to hop off.  Landing hard.

"Eat dirt?!!"

Grumbling internally.  Some unknown, surely less than witty remark to hide the embarrassment, tossed their way.  Rising up to walk the bike the remaining distance.  A big, huge hole at the knee of the only pair of jeans - any pants at all - owned.

I wore skirts the rest of the seventh grade.

By spring, a friend from the same neighborhood, was joining me on the avoid-the-yellow-school-bus trek.

The oh-my-goodness-what-am-I-going-to-tell-my-mom about this or that talk that went on as we walked home caused giggles to erupt.  But, it's The Pole memory that is the solid bookend to the get-myself-to-school memories.

Once a week, the school newspaper - a two sided ditto - came out.  We took turns reading it to each other, whether we were on bike or foot.

Coming out of the wooded patch, onto the steep hill, we climbed.  Once at the top, the street leveled out.  Then it was much easier to dive into the school news.

She read to me, completely captured by whatever tale that courier font regaled.  Listening intently, I no more saw what was in front of her than she did.

A pole.  A light pole?  I don't know what exactly it was in the moment.  But, she walked right into, school newspaper in hand.

SMACK.

From that day on, it was her pole.

Every school day after, she would give her pole a li'l hug as we passed by it, on our way home.

And on the last day of school, we even stopped to photograph her with it.

I'd share it with you, but then I'm sure she'd have to kill me.  And I'm not ready to do dead.

So, that particular seventh grade memory bookend will stay right where it is.

But, I remember both experiences vividly - acid wash jeans destined to become cutoffs after I crashed and burned in front of those boys for me and navy blue shorts, navy blue & white stripped tee for her and her pole.

I. Loved. Seventh. Grade.

You know how I'm sure?

My memory banks are bursting from that particular year.  Thank goodness.

 

Ran with Mama Kat's first prompt: a seventh grade memory.  I had oodles to choose from for that particular year.  So, to keep indecisiveness at bay, I ran with the bookends!

 

What do you remember from your seventh grade year?

 

Great Expectations

Guess where I get to hang out right now?

Greta, the fun, totally real mama of four, invited me to spend the day with her at G*Funki*fied.

Twitter struck again and led my way to the lady with the sassy pants and I'm so glad it did!  She tells it like it is, shares her fun family photos a la her Project 365, working towards her 2013 running goal (she's totally rocking it) with #Mamavation, and we've found a common bond through her own kidlet gluten free journey.  Make sure to join her #iPPP linkup, sharing phone snapped photos on Wednesdays.

Come on over to Greta's place where I'm sharing what happens when I'm desperate...and just how much I trust my husband.  And then stay awhile and visit with Greta!

#iPPP & WW { The Other Woman }

Driving north, the green freeway signs continued to pass on my right, assuring me the small town my new boyfriend lived in was getting closer.

 

I might have been a touch nervous.  My first visit to his place and I had heard all about the other woman who lived there.

 

Word on the street was how fiercely she ruled the nest.  Supposedly, it could get downright nasty if her claws were out.  She never hesitated to tell any female exactly what she thought of them.

I wanted none of that.

 

No way was she going to interfere with my first visit to my new man.

 

Whipping my li'l white car into the driveway, turning the engine off, grabbing my purse, stepping out and squaring my shoulders.  I climbed the stairs, determined.

 

A single knock on his door and there he is.  Leaning in, he tries to kiss me.  No.

 

"Where is she?"

"What?"

 

"You can have a kiss after.  Where is she?"

 

"Oh.  She's over there, on the couch."

 

Without hesitation, I walked away from him and over to her.

 

Holding out my hand to her, I waited.

 

She sniffed.  She gave me the eye.  She opted to play coy and appear bored.

 

But, I knew.  I was in.

 

You see this sweet, nearly twenty year old kitty?

 

This is Bonnie, the other woman.

 

Legend has it, before I came into the picture, this sweet, innocent looking cat would hiss and spit at any female that came over.  And I'm not a fool, I knew who's fur not to ruffle.  While she merely tolerated me in the beginning, there was never a hiss for me and ultimately, she came to know where to get the best cheek scratches.

 

On January 16th, Bonnie passed away in my husband's arms, just like her brother did three years ago.  This photo was taken two days before she left us, happily soaking up sunshine.

 

We miss her.  But, there are so many sweet and often silly memories with this li'l nine pounder.  She was a Manx/Siamese/Tabby mix and high on personality.

 

In her younger years, you had to keep your eyes peeled with this one.  She was the original Stealth Kitty and could jump up, cross your lap and steal a piece of pepperoni off the slice of pizza in your hand and you would never know - until you looked at said toppingless piece.

 

Bottlecaps were prized kitty toys.

 

There was never a sun's ray she didn't like.

 

The same kidlet who sent her running for the hills when he learned to walk as a tyke later became her best buddy to hang with.  They were amazing calming forces for each other and in her last year, when arthritis was hitching her hips, he was her own personal physical therapist getting her to go on "Walk Races" back and forth, until she no longer limped - every single day.

 

And she was the bomb at the photobomb and never failed to get in on everything I snapped out on her deck.

We love her.  We miss her.  We happily remember her.

 

 

Linking up with these awesome sites - come join us!

#iPPP with G*Funk*ified & The Sunday Spill

Word-less/ful/ish Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus, Parenting by Dummies, Project Alicia,  Live and Love Out Loud, Jenni from the Blog

Six Words { Write }

Write today.
Write tomorrow.
Write away.

 

~ Check out SMITH for more Six Words. ~
~ Today is the first day of NaNoWriMo! ~

Six Words

 

Sun shinning,
leaves turning,
weather's not.

 

 

 

~ Check out SMITH for more Six Words. ~

Six Words

 

Weekend delights

bring bright

Monday

 pauses.

 

 

 

~ Check out SMITH for more Six Words. ~

RemembeRED: Title & Tagline

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On the Move

After living on two coasts, in four states, twelve towns, sixteen abodes, standing still, she regained her momentum.

Our memoir prompt at Write on Edge is "to come up with a title and tagline that captures your life, or a moment from your life."

Easy peasy, right?  Yeah, that's what I would have thought since microfiction and I are such fine friends.

But, micro memoir that's boiled down to a title & a tagline?  Not so much!  I wrote about a dozen or so, but this is the one I'm running with.

RemembeRED: Crash

Crash.  The impact changed more bits and pieces than I can count.  Crash.  The tiny car I drove collided with an eighteen wheeler big rig, or so I’m told; I have no memory of it. 

Crash.    Waking in the ICU, only flickers and images of those three days remain.  Crash.  A week in acute care and a few realities set in.  People only kissing me on my upper left forehead – something was wrong with my face.  A cast had made a home on my leg.  Every part of my upper body cried out, if I tried to move.  A phone call from the CHP officer asking me if I remembered what happened – I didn’t.  Filling out his report, he told me I was not at fault.  Visitors, lots of visitors came in and out – family, friends, coworkers from my new job, and my new boss popping wheelies in my wheelchair at my bedside.  It hurt to laugh, but I smiled.

Crash.  Two weeks on the rehabilitation floor.  The mini gym on the lower level found me twice a day for Physical Therapy.  Once a day, I navigated through Occupational Therapy for simple tasks that weren’t quite as simple anymore.  While washing my thick curly hair without getting that cast wet was a necessity to learn, I argued with my therapist that burning my lacerated face to bake chocolate chip cookies to prove I could feed myself upon release was rather ridiculous as there was such a concept as a sandwich – simple and without the need for a hot oven scorching my face.  Crash.

Released from the hospital, still in a wheel chair and using crutches for stairs.  Crash.  Feeling years older than my young friends in college, even though we had celebrated the same number of birthdays, I took advantage of every physical therapy appointment over the next four months.

Crash.  I was twenty-one years old and almost every aspect of my life changed.  People always told me that I was lucky to be alive.  I always responded that I was lucky it wasn’t worse.

From a single crash came a completely new world.  While there’s some stuff I’d hand back in a heartbeat if I could, I’ve learned quite a hefty volume about myself and the world I live in.  I was looking forward to the future then and fifteen years later, I still am.

This week's RemembeRED prompt from Write on Edge is a tad different.  They gave us the word "Crash" to write on for ten minutes, polish, and publish.  It's flash memoir!

Do you have ten minutes?  Come write with us!

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RemembeRED: Autumn's Gift

Eight years old, walking down my upstate New York street, hunting my next crispy leaf to pounce upon, enveloped by cool crisp air.

Eleven years old, cringing at what the Sacramento area called autumn with temperatures in the eighties, daring to venture into the nineties.

Thirteen years old, giving in to the obscene excuse for fall, I relish in the ever so slightly cooler temperatures of the Bay Area and my last year trick-or-treating in an on the fly costume.

Seventeen years old, the weather no longer marks the season; marching band, home game field shows, trying to not get hit in the head by a flag girl while wearing black, red, and white polyester.

Twenty-one years old, in a wheelchair, on crutches, time taken up not by school and work, but by physical therapy and doctor’s appointments.  Life shines differently and I remember the pure joy of crunching a tired brittle leaf underfoot.

Twenty-four years old, then twenty-seven years old, barely on the cusp of the Bay Area, surrounded by leaves that actually change; as they burn crimson upon the vineyards’ vines.

Thirty years old, sharing my favorite autumn gift, I race my first born for the best leaves.

Thirty-three years old, I have to be quick, there are two supersonic kidlets chasing those fallen crispy critters now.

Thirty-six years old, joining my daughter’s class at the pumpkin patch, scouting out a Rapunzel costume for her, something scary for him this year – a first, digging out my husband’s frightful Uncle Charlie mask, stocking organic pumpkin puree for a GFCF baked delight, all the while keeping a watchful eye out for falling leaves waiting for someone to complete their life cycle, making them crinkle, crack, crunch under a shoe, injecting joy into my soul.

I adore autumn! And at Write on Edge, that's just what we're writing about today.

If you're curious why I love Autumn so much, I have gorgeous crimson leaves, pumpkins (scroll to the bottom to see the Yoda I carved) and more pumpkins (again, my Star Wars carving is the last pic), some yummy GFCF pumpkin bread, and of course, football!

I hope your fall is a fantastic one and a might bit cooler than the hot weather we're having...again!  But, even with the high temps, I'm relishing all the other signs that fall is here:  pumpkins, the grapes being harvested from the vines, leaves beginning to change color and soon I'll be crunching away as they drift to the ground.

What does fall mean for you?

RemembeRED: When do you want me to come?

Sporting a white polo top, a short straight kelly green skirt, and white Keds, she hobbled up the small hill from the parking lot on crutches with the sun rising behind her.

That was twenty-four years ago that I met the little blonde who would become my best friend and one of my treasured Four Musketeers.  The memory wasn't stored intentionally, but back then I remembered just about every living photograph I saw.  Today, I'm glad the memory is so accessibly stored in my mind.

Looking in from the outside, we probably shouldn't be best friends.  She's blonde, I'm brunette.  She's sporty, I'm not.  She's a joiner, I'm not.  Even though she has two cats, she's a dog person.  Cats are my fur peeps.  They're great listeners, cute, don't stink, and a heck of lot cheaper than therapy.  She follows recipes, I always change things up.  She's fond of measuring, I'm not.  She rocks it in the math department, I party with words.  She checks in on Facebook, you'll more often hear me on Twitter.

And yet, twenty-four years later, whether via phone, Twitter, Facebook, an IM chat, or old school email, we never go long without hearing from the other.

A few years ago, I was more elated than usual to see her name in my email's inbox.

Exhaustion ran through every cell after having my second kidlet, particularly the days immediately following her dramatic entry.

And my husband's best friend was getting married in just a few short weeks, out of town.  He was the Best Man.  He had to be there.

Hesitation tried to hide in his eyes.  I still couldn't drive, I had a preschooler, newborn, was severely anemic, and exhausted.  It was his best friend, he needed to go.  I told him to go.

Attempting to not sound desperate, I sent out emails looking for help.  My inbox held my best friend's reply with only one question, "When do you want me to come?"

Friday, after work, she arrived.  Donning chocolate capris, cream top with coffee tinted trimming at her neck, she walked in my front door, promptly taking my daughter into her arms to meet her for the first time.

Sunshine filled the sky as she drove us out to Mom's the next morning, to drop my son off for an overnight there.  She again climbed behind the wheel to drive my newborn and I around to crafty destinations before we headed back home.

She easily transferred my slumbering daughter to her arms and sent me to my room to take a nap.

A nap?  The concept was foreign to me.  I took all of two twenty minute naps with my first baby in my arms, not because I was SuperMama, but simply because he woke up every other time I had tried.  A nap?  My baby girl was a few weeks old and I had yet to catch some shut eye during the sun's hours.  A nap?  Yes, I needed one.

Without a worry wandering in my head, I not only lay down, but quickly drifted into a dreamless solid sleep.  Waking in a dark room, my nap had lasted much longer than twenty minutes.  Climbing out of bed, I made my way out to check on my friend and my girl.

She was still contentedly in my best friend's arms, waiting quietly, patiently for me to feed her.

My friend's only question, "When do you want me to come?"  Seven simple words were like a choir singing out, filling a room with both joy and peace in the same breath.

This week, Write on Edge (formerly The Red Dress Club) prompted us to "write about a memory of yourself WITH someone else."

And just for the record, I love my husband's best friend & his wife. And yes, they both invited me to join my husband at their wedding, but it was in a very hot area, with little shade and we knew I wouldn't have lasted.  I'm glad Hubs could go, support his friend, and have a great time without worrying about me! :>

RemembeRED: Commute

Blindly flailing at the screeching alarm, I saw the red digital numbers taunting me of the early 4:00 AM hour.  I turned on my bedside lamp, yellow light pooled around me, beckoning me to get up and in the shower.  With half opened eyes, I dressed, only opening them fully once I left the apartment and locked the door.

It was a short drive to the BART station and on autopilot, I parked, grabbed my loaded backpack, bought my ticket and hopped on the train.  I travelled from one end of the line to the transfer station, switched trains, and rode the next train all the way to the other end of the line.  I hustled to make it to the shuttle bus to ride the rest of the way to campus.

Arriving on campus with time to spare, but zero energy and not prepped for morning classes was not a great start to the day. The plan to get class reading done while on the commute into the city was impossible to put into action after barely three hours of sleep each night.  I attended my two geography classes, an international relations class, and one on the history of the Bay Area as a zoned out zombie.

After the last seconds of the last class ticked by, I raced to catch the first available shuttle back to BART to repeat the morning’s trip into the city, only in reverse…shuttle bus, BART train to the transfer station, switch trains and ride to the end of the line, where my car was.  I hopped into my small Smurf blue car, the Smurfmobile, and headed straight for work.  Swing shift allowed me to attend class in the morning, but it also had me in bed around one o’clock in the morning every night.

Two weeks into this routine and what had been tugging at me every day, threatening to pull me over, finally made its last hard yank.  There was no way I could sustain this schedule.

The Bay Area history class instructor was firing off information and asking us questions, but I didn’t hear a word he said.  Thoughts ping ponged through my skull, questions filled with doubt fired rapidly.  I was supposed to go to school.  I wanted to go to school.  I had to work.  I spent more time getting to and from each location than I actually spent in those locales.  Every single cell screamed to get out.  And all the supposed to’s got louder.

I needed backup.  In a race to secure support to stand against the firing squad in my head, barking orders to not deviate from ‘The Plan’, I left class, heading straight for the payphone on the floor.

A short phone call gave me the reassurance I needed to take a different path, to do what was right for me.  After, I marched to Admissions, filled out the paperwork and withdrew from school, just in time to still get a full refund.

While my decision kept me out of school that semester, it led me to making a better choice.  And because of it, I wouldn’t graduate right smack ‘on time.’  Though, doing it my way, it was the first step on the next path that led me to moving to a new-to-me part of the Bay Area, changing schools, living and working in a location that didn’t include an insane commute or working too many hours of overtime.  And later, it had me just where I was supposed to be to create the life that I’m now living.

The Red Dress Club has had a major change, moving over to Write on Edge and in the spirit of that change, this week's RemembeRED prompt is:  to write about a time when you knew something in your life had to change drastically.

Forward March

TweeEEeet. TweeEEeet. Tweet Tweet Tweet.

The Drum Major’s whistle blew.  Forward march.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

The blue polyester pants, white shirt, and hat complete with plume might not have been something to get excited about, but being part of the marching band was.

The notes coming from my flute were not something to advertise, but band geeks were.

Dad drove me down from our family vacation in the Sierras so I wouldn’t miss a day of Band Camp before school started.  And back up the mountains afterwards.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

Marching and competing in parades in the seventh grade.

Moving just before the eighth grade to a Middle School with no Marching Band, where the lack of close knit band geeks could be felt.

Began marching again in high school.  Marching in Half Time shows.  Marching on Main Street in Disneyland, once a year.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

The school colors, red and black, were a step up, but the polyester flare kick pants were not.

The notes blowing through my flute still weren’t anything exciting.  Practice might have helped with that.  Novel concept.  But, Marching Band coloring high school memories was.

Not much of a joiner in high school, Marching Band helped me stay in step.

Left.  Left.  Left, Right, Left, Uh-huh.

 

Natalie of Mama Track, is guest hosting this week's RemembeRED prompt "to write about a time that rhythm, or a lack thereof, played a role in your life. And don’t use the word 'rhythm'" at The Red Dress Club.

My mind immediately marked in double time to my five years of Marching Band at two schools.  Did you feel the rhythm?

Did you play an instrument as a kidlet?  Do you play one as an adult?

Action!

Ask someone today whether they watch TV or not and there are a zillion qualifications.

Do they watch traditional television programming, on an actual television?  Do they watch it in real time or DVR it?  Do they watch TV shows on Hulu or Netflix?  Do they watch webisodes on a favorite website?  Do they watch interviews, demos, music videos, documentaries, and/or one of the million other offerings on YouTube?

And where do they watch it?  Do they stream ‘TV’ to their computers, iPods, cell phones, or to their televisions via Xbox or Wii gaming systems?

Today, watching ‘TV’ has a multitude of different meanings.  But, when I was a kidlet, it meant watching television programming, on an actual television.

I’ve heard that Sesame Street and The Electric Company were my thing when I was little.  And I remember watching the Smurfs with my brother, Three’s Company with my mother, and a whole host of shows with my brother and Dad that gave me a taste for what is typically considered guys’ kind of entertainment.

No, not that kind of male entertainment!  You know, fast cars, jets, helicopters, chase scenes, thrillers, action and adventure!  There was Dukes of Hazzard, Knight Rider, Airwolf, MacGyver, and TheA-Team and I loved them all.

I loved the Dukes’ chase scenes and the hilarious characters. (And being that I was young and unaware of all its political incorrectness, it still holds a fond place in my heart.)

Thought K.I.T.T., the talking car was so cool and then, for a time, when my Mom drove a car that talked to us, I thought we were pretty cool too.

Airwolf?  Come on, a badass helicopter that ascends from the inside of a mountain and flies off into action…what’s not to love?!

MacGyver.  He fixes things.  He blows things up.  He creates tools to escape certain impending doom, just in the nick of time.  He creates all that awesomeness out of nothing more than the lint in his pocket and a stray hair.  Yup, MacGyver rocks.

And then there’s the A-Team.  It’s impossible to not smile at big tough B.A. Baracus who needs a sedative to fly…a strong one.  There was Face, who thought he was all that and then some.  Hannibal who pulled everything together.  And with whackadoodle Murdock, the team was complete for whatever mission needed to be pulled off.

Yes, there’s a huge amount of cheese factor in these shows from the ‘80s.  But, as a kid, they were fast moving, kept me entertained and essentially rocked.  They gave me a love for a kind of entertainment that I may have not liked otherwise.

Those shows carried over to movies and I remember watching Bond, James Bond, with Dad too.  And now I love “television” shows like 24, though I streamed the whole series from Netflix on my laptop.  And Hubs and I never have to compromise when it comes to movies because while I do love a good chick flick, Action Adventure and Thrillers (and science fiction, but that’s a whole other post!) are not genres I shy away from.

I know I saw a lot of other things when I was a kid, but those shows are what stick out to me when I think of television during those years.  They are spokes on a wheel and I'm so thankful that I have such a variety of spokes to be entertained by, whether by 'TV', movie, book, music, or live show.

Mandy and Elena are guest hosting The Red Dress Club with this RemebeRED prompt:  TV is something that people either watch a lot of or have definite feelings about. This week, we want you to think about a tv show from your past.

600 words or less, I came in (after whittling it down quite a bit) at 577.

I ended up having so much fun running down memory lane writing this!  What's playing on your television memory lane?

Song

Time can be marked by the songs that beat in my heart.  And while there are oodles of Christmas songs that pass my lips throughout the year, as well as at the most obvious time and music that used to play on vinyl or cassette tape, now on CD or through a digital device, the songs that have etched themselves upon my soul, making them unforgettable, are Girl Scout songs.

The Brownie Smile Song will always remind me that “I’ve got something in my pocket” that’s a whole lot better than lint, lip balm, my cell, or a couple of coins.  It’s a smile “that belongs across my face.”

Gackgoom Went the Little Green Frog (some people call it Barrump), transports me back to a camping trip with my troop in upstate New York, where we all nearly froze at night until we layered on every single piece of clothing in our packs and put two girls to a sleeping bag.

Make New Friends travelled with me, across the country to the three different troops I was lucky enough to belong to.  Troop 667 was my final destination, where we went by camp names; I was Gizmo!  I sang more songs than I can count with this treasured troop.

Rise Up O’ Flame, Piece of Tin, Alice the Camel, send me soaring back…standing on a wooden stage, deeply inhaling campfire smoke, singing with my Senior troop, leading the Juniors in song.

Little Bunny Fu-Fu was great at campfire and it also made for wonderful animated fun with Fishey during the lunch hour at school.  It was funny how free a silly little Girl Scout song sung in school can make you feel;  aware that you are completely enjoying yourselves without a care as to how ‘cool’ or ‘uncool’ you look.

It’s important to sing Perty Daisy with a real strong twang, “It’s just a tattoo of a flower, so I look neat when I’m taking a shower.  It’s on the second toe of my left foot, stem and flower, but there’s no root (‘cause that wouldn’t look good)…” Perty Daisy is a favorite of both Fishey and I, though she has the tattoo to prove it.  Me?  I sang it till my voice was almost gone while potty training a kidlet a few years back!

Singing Girl Scout songs continued on with my kidlets from the moment they came home with us from the hospital.  On My Honor, sang over and over to calm or send a kidlet off to dreamland with.  And Little Birds sang with exuberance to elicit a giggle in the morning, while getting a wriggling munchkin dressed.

It didn’t matter if I was singing these songs to my son or my daughter.  The songs had become a piece of me to share and give to two beautiful pieces of my heart.

The songs are my past, my present, and still friends with many from Girl Scout troop days, will hopefully continue to be my future.

The Red Dress Club prompted us to write about what we know by heart from childhood.

I immediately thought of Girl Scout songs. While I tried flirting with other memories, those songs just kept singing louder and louder, until I gave in to them.

With a 500 words limit, I came in just under the wire with 499!

Six Word Memoir & Mama Kat challenge this chatty one!

Prompt #1:  Six Word Memoir: Write about a significant time in your life in just six words.

Oh heck, there's no way I can only use six words?! I'm way too chatty for that!  Okay, okay, I'll try.

California. Oregon. Washington. New York. California. Stay.
California. Oregon. Washington. New York. California.

Fifteen moves, twenty-four years, no more.

Lifetime of moving. Loving staying put.

No memory of twisted metal is good.
No twisted metal memory is good.

Found joy in becoming a Mama.

And most recently, with my Princess turning another year older and heading to kinder in two and a half months:

My babies are no longer babies.

sigh

Okay, so there.  I stuck to six words each.  That counts, right??!! :>
Play along and I'll stop by to see how your six words play out!

Edited:  Thanks to friend Jenn for pointing out I  missed the six word mark.  The first one, I'm sure I was seeing 'New York' as one word in my head as I was thinking of one location.  Though, don't know what happened to my elementary math skills on the fourth one!  And because the errors are irking me, now that they've been pointed out, I went back and corrected them!

 

A Million Grains of Sand

Carrying blankets, towels, and a cooler loaded with sandwiches, soda and water, we hiked down the steep switch backed hill to our treasured spot.  Almost there.

Huge steel colored boulders were the last obstacle for us to climb over.  Reaching our hands out for one another, we steadied each other.  Truthfully, more often than not, it was me reaching out for his steady hand as I worked my way from one boulder to the next.  Almost there.

Moving from firm footing onto a million tiny grains, each step sinking a bit before pushing off, we propelled ourselves forward.  Giddiness would start to spill over as we approached the wave churned, smooth as silk driftwood in our path.  So many shapes, so many possibilities could be seen in those twisted pieces of wood.  Almost there.

A million warm grains crunching under each step as we approached our spot.  Laying out a blanket, we sprawled across it, kicked off our shoes and plunged our toes into the sun baked granules.  The warmth slowly travelled up through our covered feet, through our bodies, bit by bit, until the sun’s rays could be felt on our faces.  It was as if we were melting;  melting into each other, melting into the sun, melting into the golden, glittering sand beneath us.

The ocean pounded its waves past the rocky cliffs, into our cove.  Its rhythmic washing of the shore swelled in our ears.  An occasional seagull pierced through.  We were there.  We were in our cove, on our spot, filling ourselves with a peace we found each time we went.

This week, The Red Dress Club, prompted us to write a memory of sand.  I instantly thought of the cove that my husband & I frequented when we were dating.  It was like a little piece of heaven.  It's a hike to get down to it and between that and the fact that there are strong rip tides there, we don't take the kidlets there and consequently, haven't been in quite awhile.  Thankfully though, the memories of it have not dimmed.




This post suffered from the Great Blogger Debacle 2011 and lost all of its lovely comments, which makes me sad.  But, I cannot think of a better way to happy up this post and myself than to link up with super sweet Bruna of Bees With Honey!  Let's Bee Friends! :>

And wouldn't you know it, but looks like Blogger has returned the comments a week later!  Happy to have the comments back and even happier to connect with some of Bruna's readers! Thanks for stopping in! :>

In Concert

Sunlight dances through the canopy of woven branches,

Partnering dust motes as they flit and float by,

Tapping its toes on the carpeted forest floor.

Underfoot, rust colored needles, grind with each sneakered step.

Birds trill and chat, branches whoosh and crack,

Insects whizz, whir, and chirp, water trickles by.

An orchestrated concert erupts from the forests’ walls,

A sweet serene hush unites their song.

Together, they create a comforting softness that blankets a soul.

I wrap myself in its memories, its peace, its tranquility

And simply breathe.

It's RemembeRED time again!  This week we were prompted to write about a sound or scent that brings you right back to your past.

I've spent time camping on both sides of this country (from the Cascades to the Adirondacks and back to the Seirras) and some of my favorite individual memories are from those trips.  But, the feeling I get inside the forest is always the same regardless of who I'm with, what I'm doing, or which forest I'm in.  And so that's the direction I took for this.

We had a 700 word limit.  And while I am usually quite a wordy gal, I'm here with 88...hope I put them to good use! :>

I thought nothing could ruin dinner faster...

Brussels sprouts, blech.  As far as I was concerned, the only thing worse than those little nasty cabbage like sprouts were lima beans.  Actually, lima beans still rank at the bottom of my list!

As a kid, Dad loved them.  I don’t think anyone else was much of a fan.  Though, my distaste for those gruesome balls of green was far greater, I think.

And what’s worse?  They were usually from the freezer. 

Oh wait, it gets worse still.  If they were served on my plate, I had to eat them, all of them.  My taste buds cried out in horror.

It’s not as if I was a kid with a limited palette.  While most kids’ favorite food item was from the more standard fair of pizza, tacos, or spaghetti, I loved seafood, a mean stir fry, and even shucked oysters on the rare occasion I visited family in Virginia.

But, brussels sprouts?  No. Thank. You.

Brussels sprouts were on my hit list back then and continued to reside there well into my thirties.

I was madly shopping for our 2010 Thanksgiving dinner and by my fourth grocery store, I still had not picked up a vegetable when I saw this gorgeous baseball bat sized stalk with dozens of green bulbs climbing it.  So struck by its beauty, it took me a few minutes to realize what it was.

I’d come upon those dreaded brussels sprouts, presented in its organic state and suddenly I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.  As much as the flaming orange, red, and yellow bell peppers sang out to me, or the comforting cry of our favorite friend, zucchini, called, or the green bean Thanksgiving standard whispered my name, I was deaf to all of them.  My eyes were locked on my target and would not deviate until I gave in.

I left wondering what on earth I was doing. Had I lost my mind?  Seriously, had I just ruined our Thanksgiving meal?  And my goodness, what would my husband think?  He couldn’t stand brussels sprouts just as much, if not more.  Considering he was cooking, I thought I was crazy not to factor his distaste for them into the equation!

To my surprise, he started laughing when I pulled out that big green, bulbous stick…I mean, stalk.  He quickly had the kids giggling as well.  And suddenly, he was game to give brussels sprouts one more try.

We opted to roast them as we had yet to miss with that method.  And just in case they were as hideous as we remembered, he fried up a couple strips of bacon to crumble on top.  He rationalized that everything is better with bacon.

Thanksgiving day, everyone watched the sprouts come off the stalk, one by one, as if it was a grand new spectator sport.  Those of us in the peanut gallery had many a how-to opinion to offer.  And then they were off the stalk, halved, misted with olive oil, sprinkled with a wee bit of salt, and into the oven they went.

Sitting down to the dining table for dinner with a beautiful turkey, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, the most scrumptious dressing, and those roasted brussels sprouts.  I was apprehensive, to say the least.

We grownups, having been tainted by nasty balls of green on our plates as kids, had to put on brave faces to try our first bites.  But, the kids, who had been so excited by our new brussels sprout adventure, they dove straight in.

Eyes widened.  Could this really be?  Our surprise was palpable.  And our conclusion was drawn with that first cautious bite.

Move over artichoke!  Move over zucchini!  Move over bell peppers, cauliflower, Japanese eggplant, spinach, crooked neck squash, and all varieties of tomato!

Move on over and make room for another favorite vegetable to join the ranks!

Brussels sprouts.  No bacon needed.  Who knew?!

Thanksgiving 2010 Brussels Sprouts

Roasting them was the key for us and bacon never again necessary!

This tale o' brussels sprout was in response to the RemembeRED prompt to write about our favorite fresh fruit or vegetable, from The Red Dress Club.

Her Face

Through a thick fog she reached out her hand, looking for her brother.  She knew she was in bed, that she wasn’t home, and that she wanted to wrap her hand around her brother’s five digits.

Every other detail was lost in that thick hazy fog.

And she was too tired to find her way through it.  Sleep took her again.

For the next few days, she continued to enter and retreat from the haze.  Meanwhile, she’d been cut open, put back together, stitched and stapled up.  Sleep continued to take her frequently.

Eventually, she began to emerge from the fog for longer periods of time.  And what seemed like randomly scattered pieces, began connecting, creating pictures for her….of what brought her there, why the fog had been so heavy, and where she needed to go.

There was one picture she didn’t want to see.  So many visitors had come to see her, while she lay on that institutional hospital bed, and she saw their faces when they first entered her room.  They all had the same smile, while their eyes sang a different tune.  And upon their arrival and departure, they all kissed her on the same spot on the left side of her forehead. 

She can’t remember when or who first told her that her face hit the windshield, but she knew she was avoiding a mirror.

And then the first time she was able to leave her bed, she hobbled by something reflective on the wall and automatically glanced up.  She didn’t know what she saw.

Working her way back into the hospital bed, she realized what that was.

A week after an eighteen wheeler, two trailer big rig had gobbled her little car up for breakfast, she saw her face for the first time and like a waterfall, her salted tears broke the banks and gushed down her cheeks.

A nurse comforted her.  The nurse thought she was upset about what her face looked like, the scars that would inevitably remain.

But, that’s not what upset her.  She had seen the red, swollen, stitched up face in the mirror and she didn’t recognize it.

Her flash of a glance in the mirror had only revealed the right side of her face, the part of her face that had gone through the windshield.

With a relief filled gasp, she looked at her new face again in a mirror, this time seeing the cut and uncut pieces and portions.  She saw her twenty-one year old self again.  She breathed.

A social worker at the hospital had suggested a makeup artist to learn how to cover her healing face and new scars.  But, she wasn’t interested.  She rarely wore makeup before this; she didn’t understand why she should have to wear makeup after.

While attempting to pay for toilet paper, shampoo, and Kleenex one day a couple months later, she was reminded why.

The clerk asked her, “What the hell happened to your face?!”

Years later, she’s kicked herself that she wasn’t more quick witted to ask him, “What the hell happened to your mouth?!”

But, immediately she realized why she was urged to use makeup to cover her scars.  She realized it wasn’t about making herself look ‘good’ for herself; it was about making other people comfortable.

After that, it was rather easy for her to be comfortable with her choice to simply accept her scars as part of her new face.

And that anyone who had a problem with a face marked with a few of her challenges, need not look.

At The Red Dress Club we were prompted to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it, with a 600 word limit.  The link up was on Friday, but exhaustion won against inspiration, until today. So I'm slipping this in before the link up closes.

Oh yea, and in case you are wondering, this piece is a true story; it's a piece of my story. :>