Not a Peanut Butter Sandwich

"Put it down and run away!" Cary screamed. "That's not a peanut-butter sandwich, it's a..."

...smearing of supercrema gianduja!

"It's WHAT?" Carefully peeling back the top slice, I half expect to see a slab of C4 explosive residing on whole wheat.

Nothing but the aroma of filberts and chocolate assaults my nose. My gnawing stomach kicks into a growl. "WHAT is it?" I ask.

Peering around the kitchen door jamb, Cary whispers in a voice oozing venom, "Supercrema gianduja! They made me eat that stuff that summer with Rosa's family. Remember? I broke out in a nasty rash all over my body? My throat swelled up?"

Cary is so dramatic. She's also selectively forgetful. While gathering a roadside bouquet for Rosa's mamma, Sandrina, she'd accidentally harvested some Italian version of poison oak.

I sigh. "You mean Nutella?"

"Yes, NUTELLA," she hisses back at me.

"I'm not offering you any, Cary. This is MY lunch. Go make your own sandwich."

Different perspective from Ric Hardson:

...video tape of Charade!"

Curious about what caused today's outburst, Harlen turned the brown paper parcel over, taking a closer look. Spiky handwriting spelled out five names, one below the other: Mr. Grant, aka Peter Joshua, aka Alexander Dyle, aka Adam Canfield, aka Brian Cruikshank. No address. No return address. Three tired looking stamps were affixed to the upper right corner.

Laying the package with the rest of today's mail on the bed, Harlen walked around behind the wheelchair. "C'mon, Cary. Let's head out for the day room. Lawrence Welk is on this afternoon."

"Lawrence Welk?" His panicky breathing now back to normal, Cary began humming some old dance tune Harlen didn't recognize.

"Yep, good ol' Lawrence." Harlen chuckled. "I bet that cute little Norma Zimmer will be on today, too."

Still humming, the old man wearing big, black-framed glasses closed his eyes and smiled.

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek275.html

Telescope Tales

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...toss out another turkey carcass."

"Really?" I focused my binoculars toward the barn.

Sure enough, that scrawny, tawny coyote was tracking. Shoving his nose close to the ground, he vacuumed the high desert lake bottom dust in search of another bone. Every once in awhile he'd lift his head to snort out a sneeze.

"Our own Nature Channel. Big screen. Right out the dining room window. I LOVE it here."

Rick said this a lot watching bald eagles, jack rabbits, cottontails, quails, and magpies. He said it marveling at clear blue-skied days, and breathing in clean, sage-scented air.

I loved it here, too:

No water bill.

No cable bill.

No sirens.

A million bright stars.

But, most of all: that unexplainably wonderful release each Thanksgiving, when from the kitchen door I'd fling that turkey carcass out across the sparkling snow.

Different point of view by Ric Hardson:

Rick stared hard into the telescope and said, "I think it's signaling us that we have to..."
...take the popcorn out of the microwave."

The silence that follows is broken by another beep. I look up from my book. "What?"

Tearing his gaze from the eyepiece Rick turns to glare at me. Impatiently.

Dang. Caught me again. I just don't seem to hear him when Rick starts rattling off species names: burnt-billed toeheads, yellow-bellied mattress thrashers, cinnamon-tufted deals. Whatever.

"Popcorn." He points at the microwave.

"Right." Sighing not quite loudly enough for him to hear, I open the microwave.

The unpopped packet's right-angled grimace evens the score.

"Rick?"

Silence.

I wait.

Finally, he looks up. "What?"

I smile. Patiently. "You set the timer instead of hitting the popcorn button."

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek276.html

A Little Bit Irish

For St. Patrick's Day this year I'm joining in the fun.

My change of heart came when I heard the newscaster say, "Everyone's a little bit Irish on St. Patrick's Day." Before that, I'd never given much thought to where I came from. I am who I am. I'm certainly thankful the grand sires had twinkles in their eyes and my branch of the tree flourished. But, I never gave much thought as to what kind of tree gave me roots. I have different issues concerning trees.

Certain that there's a little Irish in me somewhere, I peer closely at my reflection. Cocking my head, the light brings out some fiery red highlights. Maybe two or three. Hairs, that is. On my face.

Well, I'm pretty sure I'm a big fan of potatoes. Smothered in gravy. Oh, who am I kidding? I'll eat anything, with or without gravy.

Green? I like green. There's a lovely patch of green grass in front of my house. With a few bleached spots. That may be my fault.

I'm heading out for the parade anyway. Taking a big drink, my reflection ripples. Just for today, this chihuahua's a little bit Irish Setter!

source: http://www.childrencomefirst.com/littleirish.shtml

Computer Frustration

"Stop that!" Lisa shouted at her computer and pounded on the monitor. "Stop telling me I'm..."

...not meeting benchmark! I'm smarter than you think. You're just a stupid machine!"

I walked over to Lisa. She was sobbing, head on her arms, face pressed into the keyboard. Sensing my presence, her muffled, watery voice continued after a loud hiccup, "I'm NOT dumb!"

Looking around the lab at twenty-six other faces, the first traces of worry lines etching across nine year old foreheads, I sighed. Each child on a quest toward a magic number, they were mulitple-choicing their way toward state assessment scores.

Knowing there was no such topic, I didn't flip through the testing manual in search of Dealing-With-Children-Who-Melt-Down-Based-On-Our-Numbers.

Instead, while pressing a tissue into Lisa's hand I wondered how to comfort her with the response discussed at a pre-testing meeting:

"Oh, don't worry. Before May 15th, you can take the test again. Twice."

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

"Stop that!" Lisa shouted at her computer and pounded on the monitor. "Stop telling me I'm..."

...never gonna be a writer!"

The computer screen had just blacked out. Jerking the laptop toward herself, its hard drive responded by powering down with a deathly sigh.

"C**p! I didn't mean it! C**p! I didn't save! C**p! three chapters I gotta reinvent! C**p! C**p! C**p!"

Angrily hyperventilating, Lisa snapped the lid shut. Violently pushing away from the desk, she tipped the chair, crashing onto the floor.

Disentangling herself, taking a deep breath, she set the chair back up. Tracing the computer's power cord to discover the problem, Lisa sheepishly reinserted the plug into the outlet.

Open once more to its upright position, Lisa's trusty PowerBook hummed back to life. Its bright screen full of text smiled at her.

Knowing it would be silly to hug a laptop she whispered, "You're right. Lesson learned."

Relieved, Lisa continued writing. Right after she hit SAVE.

source: http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek274.html

Forever . . . After All

"I love you..." you'd say.
"After ALL of these years?"
Then we'd laugh ourselves silly
and almost to tears.

"After ALL of these years,
I love you, too. . ."
(Tho' it had been only weeks
that I had known you.)

"After ALL of these years . . ."
we'd solemnly swear,
Then we'd marvel how quickly
Love brought us there.

A decade is ten years,
Twenty's a score,
Now . . .
Twenty-SIX years later...
I love you MUCH MORE!

Happy Valentine’s Day!



Revised a poem I wrote several years ago, entered it in a contest where I sent it to my own true love as a Valentine. It won third prize, a lamp that will just fit perfectly in our "Rose Room" guest bedroom.

source:
http://www.celebrating-valentinesday.com/contest.shtml#prizes

Mixed Emotions

Ricky had mixed emotions about his raise and promotion, because everyone else was...
...simplifying, eschewing money, possessions, and personal accolades. Dan traded his Mustang for a ratty van. Larissa, if she shopped, haunted thrift stores. Norm bartered leather candle holders for stunted vegetables. Stella spent her bus fare buying seed beads to make necklaces. Smiling vacuously, she'd hand them out like trick or treats to complete strangers.

Pretty sure he was born in the wrong era, Ricky detested this whole hippy existence. Oh, he'd given it a try. Summer of Love and all that. Drove to San Francisco with the four of them. Bought all the gas. Shared his jug of wine. Got his sleeping bag ripped off by some "brother" reeking of mildewed patchouli.

Like a loose checker knocking around in a box of puzzle pieces, Ricky just didn't fit.

Taking a last look around at his party guests passed out on the floor, Ricky shut the door and never looked back.

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

Ricky had mixed emotions about his raise and promotion, because everyone else was...
...gone for the night by the time La Diva brought it up.

"Ricky, dear, join me? Drinky-poo?" La Diva beckoned from across the darkened lounge. The rhinestone shoe buckle ring winked seductively from that ruby taloned hand.

Ricky picked up the whipped peach cocktail in one hand and his icy Corona in the other. "Here ya go, Boss."

Inhaling the drink through a clear plastic straw, La Diva finished it off quickly with three very loud, very unladylike gurgles. "Okay, toots. Here's the deal: your weekly pay will most likely double just working weekends."

Ricky knew he was a great bartender, but the offer astounded him.

"Course you'll need a new 'do, flashier clothes." La Diva dropped out of character once again, burped, and slapped Ricky on the back. "How's the name Sharon LaStones sound?"

Ricky was no longer sure he wanted to tend bar at a club featuring female impersonators.

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek273.html

Shoe Stories

It took Christy a full minute to realize that the thing moving in her shoe was a...

...foot no longer hers.

Rocking a final time the shoe settled upright, inches from her face. She lifted her throbbing head with searing difficulty. Falling from her sticky cheek, gravel shards tick-ticked onto the cool pavement. Shaking her head, blinking to clear her vision, Christy stared at her ankle's fairy tattoo.

The juxtaposition what should be and what was battled in her brain. Painfully sucking in a partial lungful of air, Christy sharpened the focus of her worm's eye view. Exhaling, she tasted a sour ghost breath of coconut, pineapple, and rum.

Wailing sirens filled her ears, her brain, her soul. Her peripheral vision closed to a pinpoint. Summoning the core of her very being, she scraped-lifted-extended a shredded hand toward her companionless shoe. The black hole of Christy's pavement world began sucking her deep into its maw. A silent tear slid earthward as she whispered, "Tinkerbell--"

Different point of view from author Ric Hardson:

It took Christy a full minute to realize that the thing moving in her shoe was a...
...banana slug. She didn't notice it at first. Even though the sun was already rising, it was purply dark beneath the trees. Thank goodness she did notice it. The thought of her bare foot sharing shoe space with a slimy slug made her skin crawl.

Christy used a twig to ease the spotted creature onto the leafy ground next to her sleeping bag. Perplexed with its change of venue, the slug's stalks wavered back and forth seeking information. Christy didn't know whether it was the slant of sunshine or the chill of a miniscule breeze, but something engaged the slug's internal GPS system. Its upper body rose a half inch before angling away.

At the speed of spilled molasses, the banana slug traveled toward deeper shadows. The thought of his body sharing such close quarters with a naked foot made his skin crawl.

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek272.html

Little Brother Tries Taxidermy

Sally carefully opened the box and jumped back as...

...the stub end of a bloody thumb gave a little wiggle.

"DANG IT, CHRIS!"

Laughing wildly, the boy shot out of the room clutching the small gold pasteboard box.

"What a PILL!" she muttered, embarrassed at being suckered into another of his pranks. She settled back in the armchair with her copy of Little Women, wishing she had sisters instead of that little stinker.

"DANG IT, CHRIS!"

Sally awoke to Chris racing past, Mama hot on his heels.

Figuring further pursuit useless, Mama stopped. "That BOY!" she huffed.

"What this time, Mama?"

Mama unfurled the fingers of one clenched fist. "I found THIS while emptying his pockets for laundry."

"EEEEWW!" Sally wrinkled her nose. "What IS it?"

"It WAS," Mama explained, "my first spring peeper, BEFORE your brother tried his hand at taxidermy with a cotton ball and my BEST crochet thread!"

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek270.html

Checked Out!

A library card is a like a magic ticket: you never know where it will take you!

My parent's words. A right of passage in our house was writing your name for the very first time, all by yourself, on your very own library card.

With one teacher’s salary and six kids, those library cards were our equivalent of the old Disneyland E-ticket. We rode those book adventures throughout the week, then came back for more the next Saturday afternoon.

Offering even more than books, the library became a work-study treasure trove; it paid most of my college tuition. What a dream job; being surrounded by books and the thoughts of thousands of writers.

Looking out the window on the first day of summer school, I noticed that across the courtyard from my classroom was the library. This sixth grade teacher went right over and checked out something that caught my eye . . . the librarian!

How many librarians do you know who were born in a public library? I was fascinated. Found out later that the building was a hospital before it was a library, but it made a good story.

Magic or not, that’s where I found my own true love. I checked him out, never returned him, and that was 26 years ago!

Entered in a Valentine's Day essay contest on February 8, 2008, at http://fancifullgiftbaskets.com, won a $25.00 gift certificate.

Viewers rated it (16 votes, average: 3.88 out of 5)

source:
http://fancifullgiftbaskets.com/wp/2008/02/08/checked-out/

The Miniature Plastic Pterodactyl

Benjamin whispered to Christopher, "I've been watching it for two hours and it just now sat up and..."

...turned its head!

Goggle-eyed, Christopher reached toward the miniature plastic pterodactyl. "DON'T!" Benjamin shriek-whispered, grabbing Christopher's arm just in time to keep his fingers from touching the long-beaked head.

Blinking, the pterodactyl opened its mouth. Out came the tiniest of sounds: Crock!

"What're you gonna do, Benjy? Are you gonna name it? Will your mom let you keep it?" Questions tumbled out of Christopher's mouth like jellybeans from a candy machine.

"Are you nuts, Chris? Of course Mom won't let me keep it," Benjamin shook his head remorsefully. "Remember the glass dragon? The fire? I'm still spending my allowance on these new curtains."

Christopher interrupted excitedly, "Well, I'll take it."

GRAAAAAAAAWK!

Both boys stared slack jawed as the pterodactyl soared up into the air and right out Benjamin's open bedroom window.

source:
http://www.scribesvalley.com/uwriteitweek269.html

To practice my writing, I've discovered Scribes Valley Publishing's weekly U-Write-It Online Writing Contest/Challenge at http://scribesvalley.com/uwriteit.html

Aprons from the 40s

Remember the Golden Age of Housewifery?

Just like a back door neighbor
I dropped in on Carolyn
and from her kitchen door I heard,
“Hey, Sweetie, come on in!”

Click, click, her heels tapped smartly
‘cross her bright and shiny floor.
(In that stunning aqua apron
she was Dorothy Lamour!)

Sitting on her counter was
an old black and white t.v.
“Oh, I LOVE vintage Lucy shows—
Her apron is so ‘me’!”

“But, Sweetie, just a minute!
What would your hubby think
if your apron was this Marilyn?”

I thought . . .
“Well–
he’d be tickled pink!”



Inspired by a visit to Carolyn's Kitchen (http://www.carolynskitchenonline.com/ ) where you will find the most glamorous aprons and rubber gloves in the world! Creator Carolyn West sent the gorgeous apron and glove set from her 'Dorothy' line. We're not talking Dorothy from Oz, this is strictly Dorothy Lamour!

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.