Chickens

I was probably four
and loved to spend weekends with Gramma Barnes
in the rambling, white farmhouse on Lake Road.

It may have been 1958
but the year didn't matter because I couldn't write
and didn't know my numbers.

The pear tree in late summer was a haven
for yellow-jackets hovering over
sunwrinkled pears fallen on the ground.
I can still smell sweet fruit, hear the menace
of yellow-jacket buzzing.

Mud pies baked in the hot metal tube
that housed the Oregon Journal on a daily basis.

Chickens scratched in the yard each morning
right after Gramma tossed them their breakfast;
grain, or corn, something that wasn't oatmeal.

At four, I didn't much care what chickens ate.
I kept my distance.
They kept theirs.

Today I drive past memories on Lake Road.
The farmhouse is gone.
No chickens.
Gramma Barnes is resting,
in the Pioneer Cemetery
two miles away.

As the oldest child in a family that eventually included six children, weekend trips to my great grandmother's house were a welcome retreat.
Written August 27th, 2005

Originally posted to a poetry website that involved writing reviews and earning points.

Dutch Oven Apple Crisp Disaster

Many of my earliest culinary adventures took place at summer camp. Once a week we really 'roughed it' by cooking our evening meal over a campfire. Of course, it wasn't quite so frontier as it sounds since we made up our menu at the beginning of the week, then submitted our list of ingredients to the Pack Out counselor who worked in the camp kitchen. She premeasured and packaged ingredients into plastic bags, then packed everything into a crate for pick up on cookout day. As a counselor-in-training, I was in charge of seven little fourth graders who wanted to try baking apple crisp over the coals in a Dutch Oven. By the time my campers had pared apples, sliced them, mixed up the streusel topping, layered their ingredients, then set the cast iron pot on the coals, they were already asking how long it would take to bake. Throughout the evening as we sang songs and played outdoor games, the tantalizing aroma of apple crisp permeated our campsite. Finally, the big moment arrived! I carefully brushed coals and ashes off the lid before pulling the pot from the fire pit. Lifting the lid released a fragrant cloud of spicy apples. We were practically drooling with anticipation! Dishing up the beautifully browned crisp, but knowing it was too hot to eat just yet, we sang “Johnny Appleseed”, then blew like crazy on our steaming spoonfuls. “One, two, three–” we took our bites at the same time. Shock registered on every single face as eight bites were simultaneously ejected back into our mess kits–followed by a collective, “Yechhhh!” About that time my counselor-in-training director stopped by the campsite to see how things were coming along. Reaching over with a spoon she took a taste from my mess kit. Same reaction–quickly followed by a very guilty look. Seems the director had offered her services to the Pack Out counselor. However, she was not familiar with the kitchen's various bulk bins. So, instead of sugar, she had accidentally packed our plastic bag with two cups of salt! January 2008 “Cooking Disasters” Winner source: http://www.gourmetmagic.com/contests.php What a marvelous prize! We enjoyed it on Valentine's Day! Bread Dipping Set with Olive Oil Dean Jacobs

Lost Woman

“As the holidays approach, I'm filled with sadness over the loss of a friendship, the loss of a loved one, and the loss of self. Everyone around me seems to be of good cheer. I remember being one of those people. It wasn't too long ago..."

What am I thinking? What was I saying?

Staring into the mirror I see a purple face turning green. That’s not me. I’m a pretty blond teenager from North Dakota. This hotel room is a stop on my way to Oregon.

Glancing down, I notice the mirror is attached to an oak bureau. I know this bureau. My husband refinished it when the kids were in their teens. . . .

Startled, I look up. An old woman with a badly bruised face is staring at me. Reaching my hand toward her, my knuckles hit the cool glass of the mirror.

A rattle of keys and “Mom?” comes from behind the opening door.

I know this woman. Groping for her name, I search, and come up with - nothing. Smiling, she gives me a gentle hug, smooths my hair, takes my hand in hers.

“How are you today, Mom? It’s Christmas Eve. Let me help you get ready. We’ll pick out something festive to wear. Your bruises are looking better. You’re remembering to use your walker, right?”

There’s nothing for me to say. I don’t know how I am. I don’t even know who I am. What bruises?

The woman, my daughter, lays a bright red sweater and black slacks out on the bed. “C’mon, Mom, we’ll go in the bathroom and I’ll do your hair.” She pulls a walker out from beside the bureau, places it in front of me, then frowns.

“Where’s your name tag? Where’s your directions card?”

I have no idea what she is talking about. If I had those things, I’m sure someone took them away from me. It seems everything is being taken away from me.

Finally, a name comes to me “Marvin—”

“No, Mom, Dad’s been gone 15 years. He didn’t take your name tag or your directions —”

I stamp my foot and set my jaw. I’m not a fool. I know he didn’t. Marvin, my husband, he should be here. This woman is trying to do my thinking for me. I hate her. Who is she, anyway?

With a sigh, the woman, my daughter—she says—picks up a small card from the floor. She ties its plaid ribbons onto the front of the walker. Crossing the room in two quick steps, she takes something off the phone stand.

“Mom? How did you get this off?” She’s holding out a clear plastic rectangle on a ring. ‘Thelma’ is spelled out in white plastic letters.

Thelma? Why would Thelma leave that on my night stand? It doesn’t matter, so I shake my head.


***********************************************************************

It’s dark. Snow falls softly around us. Grasping his arm, I turn to my father. "Should I go to the barn to check the cows?"

Warmly smiling, he squeezes my hand. “No, Mom, you’re home now. Let’s get your gifts inside and get you ready for bed.”

My key won’t fit into the lock. He takes my key ring. “That’s right, Mom, your room number is 217, that’s what this fob says. Let me help you with the key.”

“Merry Christmas Eve, Thelma,” chirps the young gal wearing a pastel uniform.

“Oh . . . is it Christmas?”


An edited version of this tale placed third on the Dabbling Mum website. It is no longer viewable online. All entries began with the same first paragraph. The prize was two books. Toxic Feedback - Helping Writers Survive and Thrive by Joni B. Cole is my favorite. It will be my constant companion!

Dear Me

DEAR ME, ON THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

Hello, Me!

My school year just finished!
Did time seem to fly?
(Or did it drag slowly
as the days trudged on by?)

Do I remember
September
and my life way back then—
When I imagined my future
and picked up my pen?

I wrote some ideas
then stuffed them into
a "June" envelope
from me, sent to you.

I hope I enjoy
this trip to my past.
So, here's to my future:
Long may it last!

Sincerely,
Me

I enjoy reading from 'Where the Sidewalk Ends' and 'Light in the Attic' to my students each year. Intermediate students enjoy the rhythm, rhyme, and surprise elements of Shel Silverstein's poetry.

In the spirit of Shel Silverstein's poetry, I have written a new poem to read on the first day of school to my new class: "Dear Me On the Last Day of School".

Then, as a free write, I'll give my students a list of Sentence Starters to finish. (see below)

Students may choose to recopy my poem in their own handwriting, or staple a printed copy of the poem to their written responses.

We'll fold our sheets to fit envelopes labeled with "June" and each student's name.

Sealed envelopes will be collected and stored until the last day of school. If a child moves away, I'll mail his or her "June" envelope to the new school at the end of the year. For 'move ins', I'll have extra copies available; we can easily change 'September' to another month.

Note: If your school year ends in a different month, it's easy enough to change "June" to "May"—or any other time of year.

SENTENCE STARTERS:

Today's Date:

Last night I:

Last night I didn't:

This morning I:

This morning I didn't

I am most looking forward to:

I am not looking forward to:

This year I:

This year I won't:

If there's one thing I think I'll do this year, it's:

The best advice I can give myself is:

By June, I:


This poem written in the style of Shel Silverstein and its accompanying lesson plan was submitted to a contest that never chose a winner.

source:
http://www.theteacherscorner.net/seasonal/end-of-year/dear-me-poem.htm

First Big Bucks

Irresistible Carousels

NOAH’S ARK CAROUSEL
Portland
"You never forget your first. I can still remember my earliest ride many years ago on this old timey merry-go-round in Oaks Park. It’s a two-deck ‘menagerie’ model with rabbits, kangaroos, and frogs as well as the usual horses."

www.oakspark.com

Before retirement, my first big break came. AAA Via magazine published my favorite carousel PARAGRAPH, both online and in print. $50 and a t-shirt were as exciting to receive as my very first paycheck.

source:
http://www.viamagazine.com/top_stories/articles/irresistible_carousels07.asp

The Beginning

I am in uncharted territory here. After searching the e-universe, this may be the right starting place for my writing adventures.