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!