Tales of then and now...

A Thanksgiving Dream....

2011-11-22T08:38:00.000-08:00

A Thanksgiving Dream ~ by Souvenirs From Our Journey

Attempting to describe our connection would take a long time. I still can’t quite believe how two distinctly different people in this place of good-byes could build the bond that we had. I guess it’s quite simple really: it was of God. We, of little understanding, probably have no business attempting to de...scribe such things… but I try anyway.

“Odd ducks,” she called us. She was a classy woman in her nineties, with a definite air about her—she would so HATE me saying that, but it’s true. Never would she let go of what it meant to be “a lady.” She had been a fashion designer and a classical musician. So many talents. Then there was me. Casual. Single with no kids. A lifelong tomboy whose fashion sense doesn’t go beyond knowing that any decent outfit must include either denim of fleece. She questioned me regularly about finding a boyfriend. And, in the beginning, she often asked how a “young girl” like me (in my thirties) would spend so much time with an old woman like her.

But… beyond all the differences was something much more important: our connection. The relationship began with a curiosity of how she often sat in her half of a nursing home room all alone. I knew there were two kids and several grandchildren. When I asked questions about them, I focused on the past. It seemed safer to focus on her role as mother in years goneby. Over time, I began to feel sorry for them because they didn’t realize that their family matriarch was pure gold. If they had known, they wouldn’t have left her alone so much of the time.

There was a pull in my heart. I simply couldn’t let her sit alone. I was hired to work at a nursing home--paid to take care of the elderly residents. It didn’t stop with taking care of her though; I began to truly care about her. When I wasn’t working, I visited often. Together, we turned this sad place of loss into something very different. Empty days of sitting were transformed.

One day, as we sit and talk, she attempts to clarify things for me. “I don’t always share with people the way I share with you,” she says. “I’m a very private person, but you’re just different.”

I know exactly what she means. I am a private person too. Statements such as this tell me something that I was beginning to sense already: this woman has some things to say, some messages to pass along before she can go. I have the strong feeling that I have been put here to listen.

The other employees question me frequently about coming on my days off, “Why are you getting attached? You should never get attached because they are going to die…”

I wish for them to know that it is an honor and privilege to sit and listen to this woman, but there is no way to convey it. There is no way to try to get them to understand this bond that I can’t quite understand myself. This has to do with being human…with acknowledging the impacts of a life well-lived, and recognizing the value of another human being.

+++++

The week of Thanksgiving, I stop into her room to check on her during my shift. She is peppy, just waking from a doze in her recliner.

“Guess what??” she asks excitedly, when she spots me.

“What?”

“I just woke up from a wonderful dream. I was fixing Thanksgiving dinner for my whole family. My parents…my husband and kids… my sister and her husband and kids. We were all there together. It was the most wonderful dream.”

“What were you fixing?”

“Oh… EVERYTHING!! All of the usual Thanksgiving foods. Stuffing, mashed potatoes, turkey. Have I told you that I hate turkey? I still fix it though. You HAVE to have turkey on Thanksgiving. My family eats it, but I don’t.”

On these days, when I am working, there is not time to linger, so I head for the door.

“That sounds great, Ivy. It sounds like a great dream.”

“It was. I am going to try to go back to sleep to see if I can dream some more.”

I go back into the busy hall where many others are waiting, leaving her in her half of the room alone. My leaving bothers neither of us though. We both know I will be back to stay longer. This thing called "life" is not yet over for her, and we won't pretend that it is.

Credit, The Forgotten Ones, Compassion for the Elderly....

Halloween birds....

2011-10-31T12:19:00.000-07:00

Birds provide some of Halloween’s major symbolic overtones. You’d be hard-pressed to walk into a holiday superstore and not find owls, ravens and crows in the decoration aisle. We at Audubon find these darkly-plumed creatures to be friends not fiends, so how did these birds become associated with evil?

Crows and ravens have ebony feathers, a color associated with death and sin in Western culture.

Ravens and crows will eat carrion (dead animals) and in ancient times were observed eating the deceased humans on battlefields.

Some First Nation tribes of North America believe the crow is a shape-shifter and lives in a void of time.
Several European cultures nailed a dead owl to the front-door of their homes to keep away evil spirits.
In German mythology, witches didn’t ride brooms but ravens.
Swedes thought the harsh song of the crow was the voice of the dead who did not receive a proper burial.

Perhaps the most well-known tradition related to ravens, are the six kept in the Tower of London. If anything were to happen to the birds, the crown of England is believed to fall to some terrible fate. The first ravens that lived in the tower are said to have been attracted by the smell of the Queen’s executed enemies left to rot there.

(Painting by Linda Apple)

What goes around comes around...

2011-09-19T11:56:00.000-07:00

One day a man saw an old lady, stranded on the side of the road, but even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her.

Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn’t look safe; he looked poor and hungry. He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It was those chills which only fear can put in you. He said, “I’m here to help you, ma’am. Why don’t you wait in the car where it’s warm? By the way, my name is Bryan Anderson.”

Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough. Bryan crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands hurt.
As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down the window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only just passing through. She couldn’t thank him enough for coming to her aid.

Bryan just smiled as he closed her trunk. The lady asked how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped. Bryan never thought twice about being paid. This was not a job to him. This was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty, who had given him a hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way.
He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance they needed, and Bryan added, “And think of me.”
He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home, disappearing into the twilight.

A few miles down the road the lady saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her. The waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn’t erase. The lady noticed the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Bryan.

After the lady finished her meal, she paid with a hundred dollar bill. The waitress quickly went to get change for her hundred dollar bill, but the old lady had slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. The waitress wondered where the lady could be. Then she noticed something written on the napkin.

There were tears in her eyes when she read what the lady wrote: “You don’t owe me anything. I have been there too. Somebody once helped me out, the way I’m helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here is what you do: Do not let this chain of love end with you.”
Under the napkin were four more $100 bills.

Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could the lady have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard….
She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, “Everything’s going to be all right. I love you, Bryan Anderson.”

There is an old saying “What goes around comes around.”

The mayonnaise jar and the coffee....

2011-09-02T10:41:00.000-07:00

The Mayonnaise Jar and the Coffee

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly, he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They all agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They all agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous “yes”. The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar, effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed!

“Now,” said the professor, as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things–your God, family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions–things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house, and your car. The sand is everything else–the small stuff.”

Spend time with your family. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your partner out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first, the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children.

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.

The professor smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked. It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.”

The "green thing".....

2011-08-14T10:14:00.000-07:00

The "green thing".....

~ in the queue at the supermarket, the cashier told the older woman that she sh...ould bring her own bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment ~ the woman apologised to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."
~ the cashier responded, "That's our problem today ~ the former generation did not care enough to save our environment !"
~ and of course he was right
~ that generation didn't have the green thing in its day ~

~ back then they returned their milk bottles, lemonade bottles and beer bottles to the shop ~ the shop sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled so it could use the same bottles over and over ~ so they really were recycled ~ but . . .
~ that generation didn't have the green thing in it's day ~

~ in her day they walked up stairs because they didn't have an escalator in every shop and office building ~ they walked to the grocery shop and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time they had to go two miles ~ but she was right . . .
~ that generation didn't have the green thing in it's day ~

~ back then they washed the baby's nappies because they didn't have the throw-away kind ~ they dried clothes on a washing line not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts ~ wind and solar power really did dry the clothes !! ~ kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing ~ but that old lady is right . . .
~ that generation didn't have the green thing back in it's day ~

~ back then they had one TV, or radio, in the house ~ not a TV in every room ~ and the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchie not a screen the size of Wales ~ in the kitchen they blended and stirred by hand because they didn't have electric machines to do everything for them ~ when they packaged a fragile item to send in by post they used a screwed up old newspaper to cushion it not polystyrene or plastic bubble wrap ~ back then they didn't fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn ~ they used a push mower that ran on human power ~ they exercised by working so they didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity ~ but she's right . . .
~ that generation didn't have the green thing back in it's day ~

~ they drank from a fountain when they were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time they had a drink of water ~ they refilled their pens with ink instead of buying a new pen ~ and they replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade had gone dull ~ but . . .
~ that generation didn't have the green thing in it's day ~

~ back then people took the tram or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or rode in the school bus instead of turning their mums into a 24-hour taxi service ~ they had one electrical socket in a room not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances ~ and they didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest take-away ~
~ but isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful the previous generation were ~ just because they didn't have the green thing back then ? ~

~ with love and respect for all generations ~

The golden box...

2011-07-29T15:21:00.000-07:00

Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night.
The funeral is Wednesday."

Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.

"Jack, did you hear me?"

"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said..

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'his side of the fence' as he put it," Mom told him.

"I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said.

"You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.

As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.

The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.

Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time.

The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories.

Every picture, every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly...

"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked.

"The box is gone," he said.

"What box?" Mom asked.

"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.

"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I
better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."

It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mailbox. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.

Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention. "Mr. Harold Belser" it read. Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope.

Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.

"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully
unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.

Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover. Inside he found these words engraved:

"Jack, Thanks for your time! -Harold Belser."

"The thing he valued most was...my time"

Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days. "Why?" Janet, his assistant, asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said.

"Oh, by the way, Janet, thanks for your time!"

Author Unknown....

Cherokee words...

2011-07-29T11:01:00.000-07:00

River, called the "Long Man" in Cherokee, is seen as a living creature reclining with its head in the mountains and its feet in the shoreline.

In contrast to the Mayan/Aztec symbolism of Water, the Cherokee River is a focused, moving, living thing. It also has the dual meanings of an open pathway, as in river traffic, and a barrier to land traffic.

Long Person (River) is seen as both a community of life and a single living entity; focused power, constant motion.

The word for FRIDAY in Cherokee means “they wash”: laundry, but also oneself. When River Day falls on a Wash Day, it amplifies the message that it’s time to clean ourselves up, clean up our surroundings, and stay in constant motion .

River days are thought to be bad for surgery or any condition involving bleeding, because of the aspect of an unstoppable flow.

Symbolically, it is ultimately the River of Death, which we each must cross to reach the blessed lands of the ancestors. In the sky, this is represented by the Milky Way.

We are all made of stars. In Cherokee belief, the departed souls arise into the sky to become stars, and it is from the stars that souls come to earth to be born as children.

The planets, stars, and constellations, the "Star People" showing their faces at the birth of a child, speak to his or her strengths and weaknesses and to destiny's role for that individual.

The link between the People and the stars, between Earth and Heaven, is so strong that it's even claimed that our ancestors came to earth "from the Pleiades." At the end of the Seventh World, it's said that we will return to our home in the sky.

Oral tradition tells that the calendar is really 22 different cycles, which are overlaid to form a complete picture of the influences on any given day, such as a birth date.

While these overlapping calendars clearly derive from the same sources as the Olmec, Mayan and Aztec calendars ( no surprise, since Cherokee oral history says our ancestors migrated northwards from and through those areas) there are significant differences of interpretation and symbolism that give a uniquely Cherokee perspective.

A traditional Calendar is still used in parts of the eastern mountains, especially east Tennessee and Kentucky. It clearly derives from Olmec-Mayan-Aztec sources, and its progression provides a framework for understanding ancient Cherokee tradition and the links to Central America where the Cherokee believe that they have ancestors...

Apache legend of the Trail of tears...

2011-07-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

In the winter of 1870, hungry and desperate Pinal, Tonto and Coyote Apache tribe members had made several raids on ranches, wagon trains and settlements in Arizona trying to protect their home land from encroachment from people seeking minerals and land for ranches. The US Calvary Company B of the Arizona Volunteers and ranchers and other volunteers formed to put an end to the raids against the whites.

The soldiers found the hidden trail and attacked the band of about 75 warriors living on top of Big Pacacho (Apache Leap Mountain), a high steep plateau, near Superior, Arizona, killing 50 of them. The remaining 25 tribe members chose to ride their horses off the edge to their deaths rather than be captured or killed by their enemies. It is said that for many years afterward people found skeletons or saw bones wedged in the crevices of the steep cliffs.

The families and friends of the dead warriors gathered at the base of the cliff and mourned for them and the loss of the once great fighting spirit of the Pinal Apaches. It is said that their grief was so great they solidified when they hit the ground. The Great Father had imbedded their tears into the black stone so when they are tumbled and polished and held to the light, they reveal the translucent tear of those who grieved over their lost people and way of life as they once knew it.

"It is said that who ever owns an Apache Tear Drop will never have to cry again, for the Apache Women have shed their tears in place of yours." Some believe that rubbing the stone between your fingers has a soothing, calming effect, reduces negative energy, helps to produce clear vision in making good choices and protects you from being taken advantage of.

The Apache Tear is a translucent form of black obsidian and is a volcanic glass stone. It is composed of feldspar, hornblende, biotite and quartz. Various other forms of Apache Tear Drops are found in other places such as Chaffee County, Colorado but are generally much smaller and not as translucent as those near Sedona, Arizona.

Chief Seattle's message....

2011-07-20T08:29:00.000-07:00

The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land.
But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land?
The idea is strange to us.
If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of the earth is sacred to my people.
Every shining pine needle,
every sandy shore,
every mist in the dark woods,
every meadow,
every humming insect.
All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins.
We are part of the earth and it is part of us.
The perfumed flowers are our sisters.
The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers.
The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors.
If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred.
Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people.
The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers.
They quench our thirst.
They carry our canoes and feed our children.
So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh.
The wind also gives our children the spirit of life.
So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and sacred,
as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children?
That the earth is our mother?
What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth.
All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it.
Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: our God is also your God.
The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us.
What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed?
What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires?
Where will the thicket be?
Gone!
Where will the eagle be?
Gone!
And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt?
The end of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie,
will these shores and forests still be here?
Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat.
So, if we sell you our land,
love it as we have loved it.
Care for it, as we have cared for it.
Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it.
Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you.

One thing we know - there is only one God.
No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart.
We ARE all brothers after all."

~ Chief Seattle

Butterfly....story moral

2011-07-14T08:44:00.000-07:00

A man found a cocoon of a butterfly. One day a small opening appeared. He sat and watched the butterfly for several hours as it struggled to force its body through that little hole.
Then it seemed to st...op making any progress. It appeared as if it had gotten as far as it could, and it could go no further.

So the man decided to help the butterfly. He took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining bit of the cocoon.

The butterfly then emerged easily. But it had a swollen body and small, shrivelled wings.

The man continued to watch the butterfly because he expected that, at any moment, the wings would enlarge and expand to be able to support the body, which would contract in time.

Neither happened! In fact, the butterfly spent the rest of its life crawling around with a swollen body and shrivelled wings. It never was able to fly.

What the man, in his kindness and haste, did not understand was that the restricting cocoon and the struggle required for the butterfly to get through the tiny opening were God's way of forcing fluid from the body of the butterfly into its wings so that it would be ready for flight once it achieved its freedom from the cocoon.

Moral of the Story:
Sometimes struggles are exactly what we need in our lives. If God allowed us to go through our lives without any obstacles, it would cripple us. We would not be as strong as what we could have been. We could never fly!

Anonymus...

Don't scare the crows.... (by Margo Fallis)

2011-07-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

Don't Scare the Crows

Barclay, the scarecrow, hung on a wooden pole in the middle of a field of barley. His hat, brown and bent, lay atop his hay-stuffed head. His pants, full of patched holes, hung limp and baggy. Mrs. McKenzie had sewn eyes, a nose and a mouth on the burlap bag face.

The problem Barclay had - crows were not afraid of him. You see, Mrs. McKenzie had given Barclay a big grin and he looked too kind to be frightening.

Dozens of crows flew around him, pecking at the grains of barley and shouting, "Caw! Caw! Caw!"

One morning Crawford Crow landed on the fence post and looked up at the scarecrow. "Say, Barclay, you're not a very good scarecrow, are you? Why don't you try making noises? You can roar like a lion. If you do that the next time a crow lands, that should scare them away."

Barclay said, "I'll try it. Mr. McKenzie's not very happy with them eating all of his barley."

Crawford said, "Very good," and flew away.

Later that day when the crows came back, Barclay roared like a lion. He roared so loud that he scared himself, but he didn't scare the crows away.

Crawford flew back to the fence. "It didn't work?" He saw the crows pecking at the barley.

Barclay shook his head from side to side. "No."

"The next time you need to roar like ten lions." Crawford cawed and flew away.

The next morning when the crows came back, Barclay took a deep breath and roared so loud that it shook the apples off the trees growing in the nearby orchard. All of the crows looked at Barclay with great fear and flew away.

"That's much better. No more crows." The day passed and not one crow returned, not even Crawford. The day after that no crows came. By the third day Barclay began to feel a little lonely. By the fourth day the scarecrow felt sad. He didn't like being by himself in the middle of the huge field. He wanted the crows to come back.

When the sun rose over the horizon, Barclay let the morning light warm his face and then he cawed as loud as a scarecrow could caw. He cawed and he cawed and he cawed. A flock of crows flew overhead. They heard Barclay and landed on the fence. They were afraid at first, but after Barclay did another caw the crows flew into the barley field and nibbled away. Soon all the crows that flew over the field stopped by for a nibble. Barclay looked around and saw them.

Crawford flew down to the fence post. "Why didn't you roar like a lion?"

"I don't want to be alone. I like having the crows around."

With that, Crawford flew into the barley and nibbled away.

As for Barclay, he was happy and never felt lonely again.

Author-Margo Fallis
Art-George Banagis

Sounds of Summer....

2011-03-08T09:44:00.000-08:00

Sounds of summer....

The back screen-door always creaked a little each time Billy Joe tried sneakin' out....He wanted to get outta' the house before Granpa wanted him for chores, mostly those squealin' piglets that were just born!....

He jumped high to swat the homemade windchimes, sending them into clinkin' dismay! Gramma had made them special for Summer to catch the mornin' breezes. T'wern't nothin' but twine and bits of glass, but he thought them purty....

A hummin'bird clacked and whirred about his head as he jumped the 3 wooden stairs to the front road...He could hear Pop's tractor sputterin' out in the corn field, wonderin' if it would stop with a loud bang as it did before..

Down by the lake, grasshoppers cracked and snapped from dry grass to milkweed.....Mosquitoes whined 'bout his ears as he saw a fine-sized catfish take a jump, slappin' the water with his taunt...

Crows cawed in jest as they made their way above Granpa's newly turned pasture....A turtle dove cried for rain within the whisperin' willows, as Billy Joe gathered a wildflower bouquet for his Mama...The locusts on the maples rasped their song of need for rain, too.....

Passin' the barn, a new set of kittens mewed as they begged for fresh milk from bawlin' cows....Milk cans clattered, sounds of the farm hands echoed as they hollered at the Jerseys....

Whistlin' "you are my sunshine", he sprinted up the road, throwin' rocks at the outhouse, whilst callin' to ol' Bing to stop barkin' at the guinea hens that were screamin' their alarm, flutterin' and flappin'....

The dinner bell rang, and he ran listenin' to the sounds of laughter from the kitchen....knowin' that sounds of summer were his favorite as the screen-door slammed.....

Copyright 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved...

Buford...

2011-03-04T08:50:00.000-08:00

Buford...

Homelessness had settled about Buford's
shoulders for near to 3, long years...
His existence behind the Convent had
become sort of a kingdom of his own,
allowing him a sleeping bag, a few
belongings in a knapsack, and a bowl of
hot soup from the Nuns...

Life was not always in alleyways and
backyard settlements....he once held the
honor of being a lead man in a factory
that bustled with activity...One day found
the gate to the premises locked and the last
paychecks cut from the company were handed
out with a handshake....

Buford's home, that he had shared with his
lovely wife Phyllis, who had made it to Heaven
he was sure,....was slowly going into foreclosure..
After that, not finding employment, not being
on a list for Senior Housing, he was forced to the
streets....His first night behind the Library....

His days now filled with gathering cans, finding
donated clothing, visiting food banks, avoiding
the "sharks of the streets", he eagerly awaits
evening dinners at the Mission...

Remembering the past life, the dissolving attention
of family,...the joys, the tears of raising children..
the sharing life's trials and joys....
Now, he only shares sandwiches with Luke,
a friend from a community that lives under
the bridge...
His feet ache...
His mind wanders...
He lives on memories...
He awakes to a new weather change....
Dreams of a hot shower,.....but washes in the
local gas station rest room...
Occasionally reads a discarded book...
And most of all craves Love....

Buford smiled at another sunrise....

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Fletcher...

2011-02-28T11:30:00.000-08:00

Fletcher was always ready to haunt the halls for items in his modest apartment complex…The Towers…

Now and again there were objects to be taken….Mostly broken tables, magazines, cast-off shoes, pots and pans…He claimed over 250 National Geographics, and 3 years of Tabloid magazines…Occasionally, there were piles of wrinkled, stained clothing, but Fletcher had an idea that maybe SOMEONE might be able to wear it….

His moving boxes were still labeled, but not unpacked,….and he often would use them as stepping stones to get to his favorite chair. He boasted a 19 inch black and white tv that he got from a friend that died on the 11th floor…He was a faithful fan of Oprah…

His bedroom was packed floor to ceiling with newspapers, blankets, plastic cola bottles, and somewhere under that area, there came an odor that he was sure was leftover pizza and soup…Before bedtime, he searched for a cleaner set of clothes to cover the tattered mattress and broken springs…
His kitchen was dressed in garbage, dust, mildew, mold and 3 fly strips hanging from the ceiling lights…A pan with left-over rice and beans, set alongside a burnt skillet of month-old sausage….The refrigerator was broken, leaving food as a reminder of the mishap…

His 3 cats roamed freely, finding solace upon mounds of blankets, clothes, and draperies…only to crawl into large bags of cat food spilled upon the guest bed for chow time…Water was in plastic bowls upon the dresser top…
His bathroom counter had unused, half-empty bottles and containers, towels draped in wet puddles in the tub that was rusted and wore gray soap scum…..His toilet a chore to reach from the papers, clothes and full garbage bags littered upon the linoleum…

Fletcher never had guests….He, however, made friends within the complex, hoping to be invited now and again to help cart off unwanted items…The dumpster in the alleyway was a favorite place to find treasures to bring within his home,….be it a cracked mirror, a discarded rug, or even a set of newspapers to add to his collection…Once, he found his most prized possession, an artificial Christmas tree and lights, which sits atop his dining table..

Fletcher was a hoarder…

He was a proud man……after all, he was someone that did not have to shop for new belongings, he would settle for the left-overs, take them into his sanctuary, and wait for his lunch from Meals on Wheels…..

Lessons for life from Mommie Dearest....

2010-02-18T07:08:00.001-08:00

Sunset was only a time to fear.....Night, pulling its shade down, only meant, time for sleeplessness....My Mother would sit in an overstuffed chair, with a calendar from the gas station, and write notes for each and every day.....A plan to undo my happiness, at early morning, and let it boil over into a chaotic day..
I always wanted to tuck my kids into bed, feel their soft hugs, drink in their soft smiles, taking to my pillow their sweet kisses.....and promised them that tomorrow would be another day to learn about life and play~

I knew that when that Sun rose, and slid under the blinds, that she would steer me.....my hair wadded into her fist.....to the kitchen to make coffee. No matter that I was 6, .....it was that way.....
I don't recall that I taught my own children the art of a good cup of coffee, until they were interested~ And, if I remember correctly, they were around 16......

She would sit me at the table.....Oak chairs, stiff and harsh,......demanding me to sit at attention, while she tapped her fingernails, unmercilessly, on the calendar.....All the while, my eyes glued to the Percolator....And, when it began to bubble, I raced to the stove, to turn the gas flame down to low....First, though, awaiting permission to get up....Then her bark came to fill her dark green mug....
I smile at the times that my children thought that they could make coffee, and had about a half pound in the Coffee Maker, making it close to the consistency of mud.....Laughter......And, my mug was one with a rainbow on the side......

Neatness, was a Lesson in Life from my Mother.....If she thought you were not dressed properly, or that you shoes were not shined or polished, then you were slapped for being as a pig.......She loved polished shoes so much, that she would bring me hers, ......remarking that I had nothing else to do right then......
My children were taught that they had better throw their tennis shoes into the laundry room, to be washed in the washer, or they would have to do without until cleaned......Groans, but it worked, with a value of ownership.....

A clean house was my Mother's passion......Oh, she rarely cleaned.....She either taught me how to push a broom at 4, and mop a floor at 5....or she hired a little poor lady down the street to do it......Wiping down cabinets was also a talent of mine at 6, ammonia and all.....Venetian blind cleaning came around age 7.....I was good at it, as long as she could run her finger across them and they be clean.......
The lessons on cleaning for my children....meant making their own beds, and trying to keep a trail through their rooms so that I could get their laundry into their drawers.....Occasionally, I would find that the rooms were spotless, making me wonder what "scheme" was in the works.....

Being seen and not heard, was a peeve of my Mother's.....If she had company, then I was seated on the floor with my beloved crayons, and she would expect me to color for the remainder of time, and if spoken to, then I was threatened NOT to reply....to which she announced that I was being good, and not to get me "started"........
I taught my children to respect people that were the family friends, know them , and speak politely to all......I could not imagine muting my kids in anyway, but for disrespect......They always found adults fun to talk to...

Discipline was the toughest lesson in life that my Mother wanted to impart to me......She taught me well.....My mouth bloodied from a backhand
would stop with ice packs.....and, a bloody nose, too.....Bruises would go away after a few days, but stayed longer when inflicted with a yardstick.....Belt whippings left cuts only if you tried to run away......And, tears only were for the weakest of snot-nose kids, and I was not about to be one, she stated......When I cried about my wounds, ashamed of them in front of my school friends....then she would laugh aloud.....
My kids were stood in the corner,.....talked to for hours, and have turned out to be great adults.....spankings were gifted.....And, that was for lying....a life lesson in itself.....

And, to hug was not in my Mother's repertoire.....She only hugged me once.....It was the day before she died......I had told her that I loved her, even though I received no reply.....She feebly made an attempt to hold me for a second, but it was at least......something.
I took full advantage of getting to hold my children, from birth until they flew from the nest.....I could not imagine not feeling their hearts beating next to mine...I would be lost.....That was the best lesson that I learned in life....LOVE!

I just need a helpin' hand.....

2009-12-04T08:25:00.002-08:00

I just need a helpin' hand......

This crazy shoppin' cart is drivin' me bonkers~! Wheel turnin' ever which way, it is a darn shame that I can't latch onto a Target cart, them bein' so sturdy and all....

This mornin' has been a danged nightmare! First, this new freak of a kid down by the river is a nuisance! He plays that stupid guitar into about 1 am each mornin'...Racket that shouldn't be heard, really.....When I get some coffee and vittles into me, then I think I will sit me and him down for a little chat!!

Goin' down across Manford and Chelsea is a bummer, too....Traffic is a mess, honkin' idiots in them little sedans, thinkin' they are the only people livin' and breathin'! Crazy flaggin' jerks holdin' up a shoppin' cart!??? What will the world think of next??? Probably ask me to have a tail light on this thing, and blinkers to tell the traffic which way I need to get.....

If there could be any more ruts in this here driveway to the church, well.....they could call it the "Hell's Driveway", warnin' the congregation 'bout the values of stayin' on the straight and narrow.......

Parkin' lot's full of cars,......seems that most folks here for the food boxes are ridin' fancy~! And, there's that old biddy from the Women's Shelter. Waddlin' up to the doorway, tellin' them she is gettin' it for two people!! What she DID, was steal the voucher from one of the gals stayin' there.....That's been her M.O. for many trips, anyway~!

"My voucher?

Sure....here 'tis~!

Wrinkled, yeah.....yours would be wrinkled if you were totin' it for a month~!!

Today....a small box, if'n you please....

Some of them noodle thingies, I can zap them out at the Motel 6 lounge....Susie'll let me use that micro there and then 'soup's on'......

Oranges, please....
2, if'n I can have 'em.....

Taters won't do me a darned bit of good...but, thanks....

Coupla' cans of them Vienna sausages would be great...
Maybe some beans,....won't give none to Cecil, though, he doesn't do well with beans of ANY kind...

Sure, I'll take them cans of soup offen' your hands....
Yeah, I gotta' a good can opener.....

Bread?, you betcha'.....and peanut butter if'n you got it..

Raw chickens no good,
or that hunka' uncooked ham...(Goodness, a man with stove could do?)

Yes, Ma'am, 2 boxes of donuts would be super~!

A package of them marshmallas.....if you can spare 'em, can roast 'em over a barrel, if'n I don't eat 'em before.

And, yes, I'm open to some lettuce, so as I can put it on a peanut butter sandwich....may sound silly, Ma'am, but it is good, trust me.....
Yep, jelly or jam,.....it'll keep in this cool weather...

Could I use some more cans of soup? Sure could, Ma'am......

Thanks for the plastic forks...
and the paper plates....

Don't need napkins....they fly away....

Yes, Ma'am, I could use that bag of apples, I'll share them I suppose...

A new plastic cup...great!
Thank you, Ma'am...I'll see you next month...."

Goin' down this blasted hill is just as bad as up, far as I'm concerned....Drat!....Now, the wheels are squeakin' AND wobblin'....How long I can keep this up??? Depends on these old knees...and shoes, by the way....
Trampin....pickin' up cans....holdin' on to my stuff in the cart....dumpster divin'...
(Speakin' of dumpster divin', wonder what is behind Popeye's chicken shack?....)

Oh, 'beep-beep', your tail-end, guy~! How you 'spect me to get to the bike lane that quick.....yeah....you too!! Hope you have a flat tire.....Sheesh!

I guess you could say that bein' down on my luck makes me a weak man, but a man is only as good as he can get and.....I just need a helpin' hand....

Sister Shannon, at Summer's end.......

2009-09-09T10:07:00.000-07:00

Once again, a friend gave me a challenge with a Word Bank. These are the words given for the write...communication,features,generated, ordinary, sunflowers, Shannon, experience, confusion, monasteries, conviction, figures, inner richness, unshaken, appraisal...The following is the Word Bank Write...

Sister Shannon,....at Summer's end

The forest paths beyond the Convent of Mercies held botanical delicacies for Sister Shannon...There was Cat's Ear, Wake Robin, and Stonecrop that blossomed from clefts of rock...She marveled at the tiny miracles that generated from the forest floor..Her favorites, those that daintily snuggled within emerald mosses...She touched the bark of the Sweet Gum tree,reaching to pluck a leaf to feel the softness next to her face...

An encounter with a Spotted Owl lent silent communication as their eyes met...She wondering about his wisdom, he wondering about her choice to walk upon the earth....Tapping the tall blooms of the Beargrass, she felt the gentle brush of a butterfly against her hand....Smiling, she marveled at the tiffany features that God had painted upon the wings...Breathing in the fresh air, she blessed the tiny field mouse that ran across her habit skirt....

The open meadow was covered with a canopy of drifting clouds, some puffier than others..She imagined how the skies would pout with the upcoming September rains..those that came to quench the thirst of red-breasted nuthatches and flickers...Then after those rains, she would watch for a glistening rainbow from the courtyard...Teal-tinted dragonflies led her through the thickets of Scotch Broom...

Back at the convent, she was the one that tended the sunflowers in the Garden of Solace for visiting animals and birds...Tenderly planting the seeds early on, tending the inner richness of the softened soil, then watching them become large, golden smiles of harvest seeds. Always a great, satisfying experience for her...The pockets' full of seeds were usually placed by the statue of St. Francis of Assisi, one of the figures of stone within the Garden...Creatures flocked to the bowl of bounty, appraisal given with feather-throated songs of joy~! Dusting dirt from the bottom of the Angel of Mercy, she discovered a small, ordinary periwinkle gracing the edge of the statue...A gift, of sorts, she mused, from her forest path....

Wiping her brow with her sleeve, Sister Shannon, chose the Grapevine Chair to rest a moment at the edge of the garden overlooking the meadow...In the distance was the large, brick facade of St. Josef's,one of the oldest monasteries in the area...Word was from Mother Superior that they were bringing in the harvest at Summer's end to begin the crushing of the grapes...Large baskets of beautiful baubles to become the best Pinot Noir in the state.....

Call to Prayer bells resounded from the valley....She wondered as she looked at the complex and the vineyards if the studying monks experienced confusion or were unshaken as she was in her conviction to become a Sister of the Convent of Mercies.....

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Breakfast here I come.....

2009-08-18T11:05:00.000-07:00

Breakfast here I come...

Route 214 was rollin'this mornin'....I nearly was flattened by an 18 wheeler on his way to hell! Blew me clear off the road! He had a red cab and a half forest of logs on the bed...Cocky fellow, blasted his air horn and gestured that he was #1. And, after I picked myself up from the shoulder, crawlin' down the embankment, I found a few more cans....Weren't very many.
Probably Cecil had beat me to 'em...Cecil is a go-getter, he is younger than me, about 70, I am a guessin'...Get's up with the chickens. Sleeps down at the sawmill back yards. Purty close to the tracks,....he always likes bein' close to them tracks! Takes him back to the time that he road those rails for real! Town to town, woman to woman, and job maybe to job.

Motel 6 peeps were stirrin'.They got a good dumpster to goober through...Kids anymore don't value the can or bottle! Guess they think cans grow on trees! Lazy little critters, throwin' good money into the garbage..Always lots of partyin' goin' on and recyclin' is the last thing on their minds. Susie, one of maids there, gives me my first cuppa' coffee..Cute little thing. Sometimes she can salvage a shirt or gloves or somethin' from lost and found.

The parkin' lot of Safeway left me a prize of 5 more Pepsi's and 2 Bud lights....and a box of matches. The land gulls were fightin' over a half-eaten bagel. Wish I coulda' gotten there before those jerks! I have been lucky there, got a pack of cigarettes that musta' fell outta' a guy's pocket. If you look down, ya' are bound to find somethin'...

Turnin' cans to cash is sorta' like a little business all of it's own, ya' know...If'n you have a cart, makes things easier. Ya' can make time to the cash spot and still have time to make a coupla' trips as evenin' comes...Only obstacle I find is tryin' to beat the "Walk/Don't Walk" sign. People are mean. Really mean. They act like they are aiming for ya' as they are half way outta' the window yellin' I should get a job...Right!

3 damned dollars for a mornin's work is fair, but not lettin' ya' be in the lap of luxury!
Cecil...what did ya' get?....$2.25??
Whohooo..we are livin' now! Shame we can't even get a cuppa' coffee for 5 and a quarter anymore~!! Well, times are what they are, and my stomach is tellin' me that my backbone is gettin' near...

The frontage road was zero, cause they had the County Jailbirds out with their fancy little vests and helmets. They scour the grass near the Truck Stop, keepin' it clean for LOOKS...Don't know what looks gotta' do with it, but makes me happy to see those little snot-nose kids hafta' bend, stoop, pick, and walk like Cecil and I do. Only wish I had been there first..Wonder what the hey they do with the cans, recycle, and who gets the moolah? I feel like everybody in the world has eaten a breakfast but me...

Goin' by the gas stations is pointless anymore, the grease monkeys there are always diggin' into the trash and gettin' the goods for themselves. If we can scare a few tourists by askin' if we an wash their windas, then some of them will offer us a pack of gum or candy bar....

The Truck Stop was buzzin'...Full to the gills, and sure 'nuf, there was Andretti of the Haulin' Gang! He was checkin' his manifest and I thought it now or never, so I stepped up to him and ask him if'n he saw my skinny butt almost get cremated on 214. Sure he chortled, but did he care? Nary a bit, but I wasn't done yet...I told him he was interruptin' my place of business....I acted like I was a writin' down his license, rig # , and lookin' all official like...
He looked me square in the eye and said that he wished that ol' men like me would dry up and blow away. And, since he knew that I would probably report his speedin' self, then he said to make ya' go away, here's a sawbuck! And, a few other syllables I can't tell ya'...

But, know what? Works every time....Breakfast here I come!!

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Harold 2 - Vacation.....

2009-08-13T11:21:00.000-07:00

Harold 2 - Vacation

The porch at the Manor was filled with sunlight and it lightly fell upon Harold as he snoozed in the wicker chair…His face wore a faint smile as he drifted into a memory of a different time….A vacation, one where he was on the white sands of the gulf shore with his bride, Kathleen.
~

The ever-moving waves lapped upon their bare toes as they trekked along the shoreline....Hand in hand they giggled and stopped momentarily now and again for a newlywed kiss. Kathleen's brunette locks tangled about her face in the summer wind...Harold with cuffed trousers and straw hat, held her hand tightly...
"Harold, will we always be this happy?".....she squealed.
"Always, my darlin', always." he whispered. "No matter if we are 100, I will love you with all my bein'." he added as he lovingly embraced her...
Sea spray, salt air, and exploring the seaside, brought an appetite....The afternoon brought a shared lemonade, a halved turkey sandwich, and on the walk home, a shared cone of cotton candy. They "window shopped" at the quaint shops along the pier, marveling at all the fine things that they vowed to own some day. But, simplicity equaled happiness to Kathleen..She found delight in watching the play of seagulls and smiling at the screeching... They enjoyed children running with kites to join the wind, and found solace in building the grandest of sandcastles with her new husband...

A beautiful sunset painted itself upon the horizon, and as they waited for the sun to slide beneath the edge of the sea, they spoke of a promise to return to the very spot if blessed with children some day...

Their cottage getaway was sanctuary as evening found them with the day's bounty....By candlelight, they went through their finds...In a small wooden box, they placed their random collection of tiny shells, smooth bits of sand glass, and a buffalo nickel that was found on the pier...
"Oh, dear, is this nickel the start of our fortune to be made!", Kathleen exclaimed.
"Indeed, it is, Kathleen, but we will keep it as a token of our first vacation. How does that sound?" he laughingly teased her.
Kathleen touched his cheek with her fingertips, and vowed that she would forever keep the nickel for good luck...As a gesture, Kathleen had the nickel placed into a tiny frame as a remembrance for Harold's 65th birthday...

As Harold reminisced within his memory dream, he thought of another vacation...One that he and Kathleen had taken with their only daughter, Karen. And, as they had promised one another they came to the very same spot on the glistening beach...It was a glorious vacation, one of discovery and heartfelt photos for them and their child.
~

Vacation....

Harold thought to himself, "I sure could do with a vacation"...
One away from pea-green walls, bad food, and tales of "ills" from his assorted, fellow tenants here at Pleasant Manor...

With that thought, Harold sauntered slowly down the corridor to his room...His meager surroundings again saddened Harold...How he had come to this end made him well with tears... Gently, he picked up the tiny-framed nickel,
wiped away fingerprints with his shirt-tail, and decided it was time for that vacation....

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Hannah and the starling...

2009-07-29T08:05:00.000-07:00

Hannah and the starling....

The last drip of water from the awning above, met with Hannah's jacket. Her legs aching from the cold cement reminded her of her age, and announced that it was time to move on. People had begun to spit where she sat. Shelter from the storm was difficult for her to find. She was not nearly as quick as she used to be.

Her fingers were numb, mostly from the rubber bands that held her gloves to a tight fit. Her hair, rain-soaked, was twisted into a gray, brittle braid. She reached to squeeze out the rain.

Five men stepped around her as she stumbled to her feet. The store window ledge her leverage. Hands like swollen sponges made her getting up a task, and fingers slipped, sending her plummeting onto the sidewalk.
A harsh impact, as dry lips met brick. The warm, salty taste of blood seeped. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Her attempt to rise, once again ,successful, she shuffled to the corner. The length of the walk sent signals of chafing, dampness within her fatigues, where she had relieved herself. Her possessions with a dirty backpack that she hoisted upon her shoulder.

The alley, her home and diner, was empty except for the riverlets running down black asphalt. An alley delivery door steamed from the door jam, sending grease-laden smells out into the air. She paused for a moment to compose herself, feeling herself beginning to shake. Leaning up against the dumpster, she took in a deep breath of the restaurant's odor du jour, and heard her chest rattle. She touched her throbbing lips and met with pain.

A starling waddled along with her, anticipating that she would open the garbage for a feast. Finding only coffee grounds, and egg shells, she closed the lid, smiled at the starling, and mumbled of better days.

Hunger was all she knew now, and hope for anything better to come never crossed her mind. Every day was the same, except for her memories. Those memories of small finger sandwiches, on thin white bread, with every so thin cucumbers sliced with a marriage of cream cheese.

The starling pulled from under the dumpster, a half eaten roll.
They shared.

The scent of marigolds....

2009-07-15T17:00:00.000-07:00

The scent of marigolds....

I believe that the smell of marigolds will always be with me. My mother grew them in abundance. Small, nasty ones with deep reds and sick yellows. A medicinal odor like iodine.

Punishment was her way of loving herself. I would be out of her sight, she would tangle with her conscience, and become even more of a tyrant. Rage ruled her mornings, her afternoons, dinner, and bedtime was a simple occasion of verbal vomit.

If I did not finish my food on my plate, it brought two options. One, I could sit and shovel greasy, cold food til morning, or if I fell asleep at the table, then I would be promised that the food would be waiting for me at the crack of dawn. If I would dawdle too long, then she would bark these options, at the same time shaking my chair violently. One of her favorite follies was watching me eat hardboiled eggs and dry spaghetti, with no glass of milk or water.

She wanted me to work at housecleaning, she declared. And at 5 years old, she handed me a bucket of ammonia and a rag mop and sent me to the front porch to scrub. I had to drag the bucket and then since I could not wring the mop drier, she stood with folded arms and demanded that I dry it with rags. I cried. She became another part of herself, and plunged me into the bucket. I sat in the filmy, grey coldness, sobbing. As I wiped my eyes, it began to sting. If I did not hush, then my mouth would sting from a salt scrubbing.

Spankings were from another side of her. When she was in tears from her own anger, then I was the intended target. A belt, a curtain cord, or a maple branch switch that she kept behind the couch, would be close at hand. The yardstick was harder to find. I kept hiding it.

She would get quite disturbed if I wanted to get out my coloring book. I treasured crayons. They were my way to go into someplace else that she could not. I would always exclaim that I was coloring this page for her. She would laugh and ask me what would she want with scribbles from a crybaby like me. On occasion, she would melt my crayons, paper and all, and I would find them poured into a tin can. Once, she poured them into the sand of my sandbox.

The coal room was her secret weapon, and one that my Dad never found out about until many years later. One or two tons of coal would be delivered for our stoker furnace. It arrived by the side alley and ran down a chute that sent up choking plumes of dust. It was oily and the smaller chunks would have sharper edges. My Mother, coming forth from a cob-webbed personality, would send me to that coal room whenever she was putting me there instead of killing me. She would send me in with no shoes, a cardboard box, and tell me to count out 2 or 3 hundred of the coal pieces for her. My fingers bled. She would call into me, periodically, to up the count. No light. Not much fresh air. I would emerge a charcoal effigy of myself. At seven, I began to hate her with dignity.

Paper dolls were my family. I could have a beautiful Mother. My cardboard Mother was mute. I could dress her as I chose. I loved her. She was my real Mother, I dreamed. She burned them all one day when her cake fell in the oven.

Not having a sign of a social life, my Mother spent most of her time in her flower beds, setting, pruning, and troweling. Marigolds were pampered while I watched with skinned knees on the sidewalk beside her. She would drone on about how I should like them. They were hearty and lovely, she said. Not weak and puny like me.

I had secret funerals in my sandbox. A twig that I chose as my Mother, wrapped in a leaf. I always adorned the grave tastefully with bouquets of marigolds.

~~~
Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Crossroads.....

2009-07-08T16:53:00.000-07:00

Crossroads....

It was a trip that she had made lots of times, so she was used to the curves and the feel of the road. The stretch of highway was not the Interstate……but, good, well-marked asphalt road.....

Anticipating being home soon, envisioning a light dinner perhaps, and a brisk cup of tea, she glanced at the mileage to Boulder---15 miles. Traveling alongside her, her son, then 10.....full of stories about his weekend stay with his Grandparents, and being a chatterbox......He related how Granny had made his favorite chocolate cream pie, and now only half of it was left~ It was special to him to have the visit on his own, and not with his older brother and sister......

The car radio yielded varied music styles, and the 'noise' was welcome...Finding her son's rock station on the dial proved that there would be no drowsiness in the driving.....He smiled and thanked her for being such a super Mom, and laughter spilled between them, as he shared his bag of candy with her.....

When she came over a small hill, she knew that this would be the last junction before the road would remain straight into the city.....As she approached the junction, she thought that she saw a car at the Crossroads…Also, she thought that she saw them shut out the headlights. A shiver came over her.....She dreaded the possibility that it were someone waiting to accost drivers on the road......
She reached to double check the door locks…….And,
glancing at her son………she made sure that his seat belt was still fastened properly. Her thoughts were, that if she did encounter some creep that was out for menacing, that the miles were few, so she would just 'step on it'…..and proceed. Just as that thought crossed her mind……the car began to shake and make a sputtering sound. It sounded like when you run out of gas and, the engine gives that final choking sigh......

A cold feeling come over her skin……Then immediately, the radio began to whine , then proceeded to squeal ! This gave away to the sound of static....She watched transfixed as the dash lights began to dim……And then the worst......The headlights went out…
Rolling to a stop , she managed to, at least, get the right wheels off pavement onto the shoulder......She began to feel panic....She tried to maintain her composure……She explained calmly to her son, that they seemed to have run out of gas! But, knowing that they never traveled without a fillup on this trip, her Son laughed. and said that Dad would never let us 'live it down'......

Thinking of the car that she thought she had seen earlier, she looked hurriedly around at the intersection, only to see no one, and surely, no vehicle in sight.......Feeling somewhat relieved at that, she proceeded to open the driver’s door, swing her legs out onto the road, and as doing so…she spilled the small bag of M & M’s onto the road.....She was beginning to wonder what next....As she turned towards her Son, she remarked..."Son….we are in somewhat of a 'pickle' right now,.....what do you think?"

To her ASTONISHMENT....., her Son was not in the seat beside her ! The passenger door was closed…….The windows were up, and the only door open was her’s. .....She felt drained and weak as she stepped from the car..... Quickly she began searching and calling to her son....She was awash with anger and total fear.....How could she be talking to him one moment, and him vanish the next? She checked the car from stem to stern…..hoping to find her son in or around the car......It was pitch black......no lights at the intersection......no traffic.....and no sounds......

...............at that time, anyway......

She cursed the fact that she had no CB, but what good would that be now, as the car would not start! It would not even turn over with a whimper....She was now beginning to feel that she was in a dream or nightmare, unable to rouse herself awake.....What would she do now? She screamed out into the dark night, calling his name over and over. She walked repeatedly in circles around and near the car.......Would she be mad if he were playing a trick? Would she laugh it off, or would she scold him like there was no tomorrow?!
But, in the back of her mind was a distant memory....

She leaned against the hood of the car, looking anxiously up and down the road…The area remained still and she felt as if in a vacuum...
She sat back down in the driver’s seat…..pulling the door closed, and listening with every sinew in her body to the quiet of the night. She locked all the doors again, but left the driver's window open......Being overcast, there was no moonlight.....No refreshing wind.....
She felt as if she were going to faint.....She kept thinking about the events in sequence...as she strained to listen for any sound of an oncoming car or truck..... Nothing.

Even the small flashlight that was in her Son's backpack was failing...She glimpsed a dimmed view of her watch...It was stopped....
She folded her arms about her, shivering, as she stared out onto the road and nearby land……Tears now falling, as she felt helpless.....Alone, and her Son had disappeared....

Suddenly the car began to shudder, and rock from side to side…A blinding light covered the area...as a great searchlight….First, blue…….then, white……Pulsating, as a strobe light......She screamed, but could not hear herself over the tremendous roar......
Startled, she gripped the steering wheel.....The roar became deafening, as her ears began ringing......She was terrified.......
But, somewhere deep within, she knew.....

Then-------silence.....
Nothing moved......
Quiet enveloped her and the car.......

Until………….."Mom?"……….. "Mom???"……

Quickly turning.....she looked into back seat, directly into the face of her Son...... He was sitting there, in the middle of the back seat, hands clasped over his lap.....His beautiful blue eyes began to well up in tears, as he trembled.......
She tore from her seat, and turned and tried to yank open the rear door for her Son...It was still locked, causing her to have to reach around to unlock the button.......She grasped him to her, and he held tightly to her, in return......Then he began to talk loudly and inquire why she did not go with him??

"Where??"……

"Up with me?????"

In sheer confusion, she listened intently as he began his story of what had happened. He recounted an adventure of sorts for him.....Of being taken aboard a large ship. One like the in the stories that she used to tell him at bedtime...Like a UFO, he exclaimed....And, as he clung tightly to her, she buckled him into the front seat beside her....They were still at the Crossroads.....After she had returned to her seat, and buckled up, the car started up----on its own.......The headlights and dashlights blinked on, and the music of Kiss spilled from the car radio.....Carefully, she pulled onto the blacktop........
She knew.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Can I keep this Little Box? See how it glows?"

"Yes, and some day soon, I shall teach you how it works....."

"Cool, Mom"........

___________
Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

A trip to Cousin Beulah's...

2009-06-30T09:22:00.000-07:00

A trip to Cousin Beulah's…...

Picking blackberries was our excuse for going to see her. She would exclaim that bucketfuls would go to waste if we didn't come that particular Sunday. Rain would take them. She added, of course, there would be plenty of vittles to go around.

Instant dread.

Beulah's kitchen came to mind…

The trip was about an hour's drive, winding on blacktop that the county should have seen to condemn. Branches whapped the sides of our 53 chevy as the road narrowed with each turn. Dusty leaves and lost grasshoppers invaded through open windows. Misery wasn't complete, though, until we thumped over a flattened skunk. Was this an omen?…

Her oversized, rural mailbox marked her sprawling farm. "Beulah and Hank" it read in yellow enamel. No last name needed in this neck of the woods. The gate was barbed wire strung on seasoned two-by-fours. Unlatching the rope and dragging the thing open, brought a nice etching on the top of my foot. I winced, but did not scream when I saw the bleeding cut. Instead, I pointed to the well-rutted drive, hoping that the car would not 'bottom out'. Climbing into the car, I grabbed a dishcloth from a casserole dish that I had brought, and clamped it over the gape in my foot.

Beulah had spied us entering her yard, and she squealed with delight when we piled out of the car. How special she said that she felt. We had come to sample her home cooking!

She hugged us and pinched the kids' cheeks, telling them to run along and play with their little cousins. Seeing my cut, she claimed that some cow salve would fix it, for me not to worry. Hobbling into the screened porch, I wasn't expecting what I saw. She had scooted her laundry table into the middle of the porch, and butted up next to it were two saw horses. A wooden door then spanned them ,dressed in a gingham tablecloth. The table wore one of her finest bedsheets. In the center of each was a huge bouquet of peonies and rabbit grass in mason jars. Ain't they lovely, she ask.

An assortment of plates, all in different designs and colors, and a spoon and fork in various sizes rounded out the table. Her wash tub was turned over an orange crate, covered with a dishtowel, becoming the station for drinks. Her collection of short and tall glasses sat atop, accompanied by two pitchers. One of tea, one of lemonade, halves of lemons floating in each.

Following her into the kitchen, she explained that she set up on the porch, fearing the kitchen would be too hot. I was relieved. Now if the porch was well screened, I would not have worried so much about flies or yellow jackets….

The kitchen boasted random smells….Fried chicken, 49 pieces to be exact, fried in good white lard mixed with the best of her bacon grease. Pork liver fried in the same skillet when the chicken was done, then smothered in white onions, that once again bore a hint of bacon flavor. There was a ham. An old ham. How old this ham was was measured by the thickness of the grey mold on the skin. It was cured. Cured right out there in that smoke house, she claimed. A glance at the smoke house brought back memories of a haunted house that I once visited. The outhouse looked like it was built by the same architect.

There were beans- - - -green beans that had a devine piece of fatback floating above now grey strings. More beans- - -shellie beans, deserving a pot of their own. Red striped legumes that had burst with flavor from- - -what else, her prize-winning mixture of 2day-old bacon leftovers. Even more beans- - -Pork-n-beans complete with bulging slices of little canned vienna sausages. Flavored with a crisp, maple-flavored bacon slice and a full bottle of catsup.

Along with the beans and multitude of meats, she had the children tend a fire that was crackling out on the lawn. Seems they had dug a hole , lined it with rocks from the creek, and another washtub sat with water simmering. She exclaimed that she would let them know when to strip that corn of its pajamas and toss it in for a swim. There were 6 large kitchen shakers of salt upon the main table. She asked if I thought that would be enough for everyone to salt up their corn. I smiled politely and said that they could use pepper if they ran out of salt.

There were sliced tomatoes, sliced onions, green onions, little yellow tomatoes, cucumbers in vinegar, and pickled beets.

She made potato salad. Egg potato salad. Onions, potatoes, eggs, and two jars of mayonnaise. She wanted to have enough to fit in the cream crock. That was 3 gallons worth. She also added that she just set it out an hour or so before we drove in so it would be room temperature. She didn't like cold potato salad and didn't think we would either. Mayonnaise in this heat made me think strange things.

She had greens picked from her garden and yard. Yes, the yard. There was about one third dandelions. Yellow blossoms and all. Made the mixture a little zingy-er she mentioned. She thought that this time she would leave the roots intact, as we had a few to feed. She was about to scald the greens with a mixture of vinegar, salt, sugar, pepper, and a full 12 inch skillet of bacon grease. She did. It scalded them. Yellow petals and all. This was in a grey-spattered enameled dishpan. She said it was clean enough, after all they wash dishes in it~!

In her living room, she put up two of her ironing boards, topped them with some bath towels, and that is where she displayed her baked goods. Pies- - -Pecan pie, which was a favorite of the flies. An apple cobbler that she said had scorched on the bottom, but she had scraped out best she could.

There were two cakes- - -One chocolate cake, iced and decorated with yellow marshmallow chicks that she had saved from the kids Easter stuff. This was August. The flies and gnats liked the cake too. So much so it seemed that she gave one of the kids a quarter to stand by the pies and cakes to shoo them away. The other cake the flies avoided. Must have been that it was a fruit cake. You could smell the liquor from 3 feet away. I mentioned that all this baking must have sent her kitchen into a massive heat wave. She said that's why she did most of the baking 5 days ago. And, she added that the fruit cake was in their smoke house in a tin. It would be fine, she said, cause the spirits would rule out any mildew. But which Christmas, I wondered.

Checking on my own kids, I found them arguing about which kitten that they would be taking home. I told them that would be discussed later, if at all. I tried to be diplomatic about it, but the kids all insisted it would be OK, cause Cousin Beulah has 17 little kittens, 4 mama cats. The 5 dogs that were lolling on the driveway when we arrived came to mind. I wondered what sort of relationship they entertained.

Soon, she exclaimed that it was vittle time. She handed everyone a bath towel for a napkin. She said that she knew her family. They would be messy. She directed me to set out the pickles and there were four or so varieties. Watermelon pickles, tart but sweet, too. Zucchini pickles with chunks of garlic strewn thru the jar. Her 'ice-box' pickles that she used extra alum to make them 'pucker up your whistle'.

The breads were cornbread with tiny chips of bacon and seasoned with bacon grease. A couple of pans of biscuits. Buttermilk biscuits, and drop biscuits with grated cheese and bacon pieces.

Something told me that I would be oinking when I left.

One of the younger kids came in from the outhouse and announced that my kids had dropped the toilet paper into the hole. Now they would have to use newspaper. All this he spouted as he was washing his hands in the kitchen sink next to the biscuits that were on the powdered cabinet top. They were waiting under a fairly clean tea towel to be baked up next. He yanked the towel from the biscuits, dried his hands leaving questionable stains, and then gently placed the towel upon the biscuits.

I then drew a big sigh. What's wrong, honey, she asked are your allergies acting up or was the ride a little tiring? I was unable to answer without sounding frightened, so I said yes and let her believe that the country air was too much.

The men had already gathered at the table. All of their smoking was beginning to help with the gnats and flies. Now if we could get to the yellow jackets that were insisting on circling the lemonade, we would almost clear out the porch. I spoke too soon.

From under the house came the kittens. How? Through the holes in the porch floor. They lived under the porch, and the kids had scared them with rocks and they were coming up for safety. They scattered and before I could get a broom on them or snatch them, they started clinging to the sheet that was on the table. Climbing their way to the top and across each and every plate on the table. About 10 of them. Some disappeared under the stove, some clung to the screens on the porch.

Beulah screamed out through the kitchen window asking the kids to make that corn naked and give it a bath. Squeals from all of them as corn husks and silks filled the air. Their hands never washed, but I felt OK thinking about the hot water. That should get to any stuff that would be dirt. She warned that she would come out and bring them in, for them to just watch them swim for a while. When the time come to gather her ears of corn, she took a huge cut of oilcloth from the shelf and placed it next to the washtub. She harvested them with a long kitchen fork and tied them up, bringing them into the porch and laying them down on the floor. Be careful she said, they are hot and try not to step on them. I drew another sigh.

Dinner was a blur. I didn't worry much about my kids. I knew that they were up on their shots. The mosquito and flea bites I could deal with later. A little calamine lotion.

I'm not sure what everyone ate, I just know that bowls of beans passed freely around the table. I chose the chicken. The thought of that slab of pork liver was too much of a challenge for me. I ate as much of the greens that I could tolerate; passed on the potato salad.

Later in the afternoon, Beulah insisted that the blackberry patch stood waiting. Armed with various sized buckets, we walked about half a mile to the edge of one of their fields. Beulah carried a flour sack, and Hank the shovel. They wanted us to have uninterrupted pick, while they would chop or scoop the black snakes for us. That made me feel special.

Back to the house with about a bushel of blackberries. We loaded them into a cardboard box lined with newspaper. Beulah had to dump out some spiders, but she insisted that the box wasn't all that dirty.

It was to be dessert time says Hank, but we exclaimed that the road was a little winding and we wanted to get back before dark if we could. That would be no problem for Beulah. She wrapped the apple cobbler in foil and said that she would retrieve her baking dish when she came to visit us. I wondered when that would be.

About half-way home I did an inventory on the car. A trunk full of blackberries, an apple cobbler, a milk jug filled with peonies, stalks of cattails, 11 rocks from the creekbed, a kitten meowing in a shoe box, 5 jars of pickles, and kids sleeping with chocolate smiles.

I closed my eyes, relaxing my foot that was still swollen, and counted the many ways Cousin Beulah used bacon.

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved

Harold 1 - Absence of the little things...

2009-06-26T17:27:00.000-07:00

Absence of the little things.....

This mornin', I could have used my old plaid chair in my room here at the Pleasant Manor Home. It was ugly, my daughter told me, but it was my chair. I sat in the damned thing for 21 years. Kathleen patched it for me, time after time. Lasted long enough for my dog Claude and me to snooze many a nap......

Claude died, before I came here. Best dog I ever had at Elm Street. He was 13 and still strong as an ox, but just went four feet up one day on the rug in front of me. Laid his head on my old moccasin house-slippers, took a sigh, and just left.....

My moccasins were a warm gift from my late wife. Kathleen claimed that when your feet were warm, that the drafts won't have a way into chillin' your bones. She always talked about stayin' warm when she tucked the afghan around my shoulders and lap, leavin' me with a cup of vegetable soup, thick and hearty, as only she could make.
The soup here is thin, sorta' the color of dishwater, and sometimes rivals the taste.....

She was a busy cook. Always tryin' out new recipes. Casseroles for just the two of us, but layin' an extra one in for our daughter when she came by. My daughter didn't get most of the dishes, and claimed that time was just precious, and she just couldn't swing by to stop in.
Kathleen would weep a little, and give it to one of the neighbors.....

Usually, we toted it over to the Inman's, as they were our long time friends since their trailer was moved in. Spent lots of time in their carport, grillin' and talkin' 'bout where life had takin' us. Lots of laughin', jokin' and just sittin' and watchin' the birds at their feeder....
Dinner here is sorta' weird, as the only sounds you hear is coughin' now and again, and silverware fallin' from from weak hands. The plates here are piled with soft foods, in shades of one drab color.....

Speakin' of color------The art class is the only thing that I hadn't tried before comin' here. I have tried to paint the flowers that Kathleen used to grow out back, or the ones that my daughter and I placed on her gravesite, but they come out all blurred and yucky~

Teacher said that I should just picture the things that I miss the most and my paint brush would take me there....

I guess the absence of the little things would fill my canvas.......
_____________________

Copyright © 2003/2012
Margaret LaVonne Hall
All rights reserved