Reena’s Xploration Challenge- To My Granddaughters

I took the image and suggested prompt below and turned it on its head. As my blog’s primary purpose is to offer my views to my granddaughters, my interest is in their futures as truly strong women who believe in themselves. I would fail them if I suggested a vantage point, that I completely disagree with that suggests they should feel aggrieved or behave like entitled ‘victims’ of imaginary forces SO some may be offended. Hey… so be it.

The picture above seeks to capture your heart,
On terms now used more often to split us apart.
Women are special in their own beautiful design.
Their different abilities from men work just fine.
Equity tells us we need the same results,
It’s our diversity and efforts that term truly insults.
Our sizes and shapes don’t need to conform.
In Nature uneven potential’s the norm.
If you lift up a frog, it won’t learn to fly
Because all his value is swimming, that’s why.
Our potential is honored by being treated the same,
Not by deciding who gets a boost in the game.
Equality tries to promote sunny days
For everyone hoping to shine their own ways
But well-meaning people take an odd pride,
Thinking working achievements require a ‘ride’.
When fudging one’s gifts or in granting a perk,
Equity values no claim to your own work.
You’re not entitled to be all the same height.
It’s your equal chance to grow that’s your right.
The big no-brainer is we aren’t all the same.
Embrace your own talents for winning your game.
Equity enforces shortcuts chosen for some they enhance.
Equality promises you’ll all get a fair chance.

My Grandma

An alarm clock goes off somewhere downstairs. It’s 3:30 am and I wander into the kitchen where grandma is dressed and preparing breakfast for the men. Places are set at the table when she feeds the dog and pats me on the head asking me if I might want to go back to bed. I say “No, I want to go to the barn today.”
She hollers up the stairs every 5 minutes for half an hour. “Get up!” Each time the pitch rises in her voice until she hears fumbling footsteps. The men enter the kitchen, with yawns and grumbles, just before we walk to the barn in the dark of early morning. I’m too little to help so I set off to find kittens in the corners of the barn. Switches are pulled and motors come to life to the clanging of milking machines being assembled. She opens the barn door where the cows are anxiously awaiting entry. They know their places and file in, much more orderly than kids would, extending their heads through stanchions that will be closed keeping them there.

I hear the scuffing of rubber boots and the men take up their duties of closing stanchions and graining each cow according to her own needs. When I get a little older, I’ll be helping. But, for now, my job is to stay out-of-the-way of the cows. I walk along by their heads, petting the friendly ones. Tigress and Ginger are my friends. Each cow has a name. The number tags are many years beyond. My grandma will laugh, harder than I’ve ever seen, when I announce that Raindrop really looks like my Dad and a cow will be renamed “My Friend”, this summer, just because of my insistence that she was.

Later on, Grandma will rush to put on lunch and then take a power nap of about 20 minutes. She may be running the rake in the hay-field, shortly after that, then back to the barn for evening milking. After evening milking, there’s supper. Grandma was the best cook. She never measured with cups. Only now, I realize it was more efficient in time saved, not by choice. Seven days a week, every single day of the year, Grandma worked. She mowed her own lawn, washed the laundry and did the grocery shopping too.

Grandma rarely wore make-up or fancy clothes. She loved to read. Anne of Green Gables was her favorite. She would doctor any injured person or animal and put out milk for the feral cats without fail. She loved extra oregano and green peppers in her spaghetti sauce and thought daisies and phlox were the sweet touches placed on earth to remind her of delicate things she wouldn’t, otherwise, be able to enjoy.

Grandma used the phrases “between a rock and a hard place” and “at sixes and sevens” when she was frustrated. No swearing, ever. On the rare occasion that I was irritating her to distraction, she’d say, “Don’t make me get ugly with you.” I didn’t know what that meant, exactly. I do remember looking at her face and wondering how my beautiful grandma could EVER be ugly?

Our minds often tell us what we already know in dreams and flashes. When she passed away in 1999, I had a persistent flashback of a movie scene that plagued me for months. It was Dorothy embracing the Scarecrow, in the Wizard of Oz, and whispering in his ear, “I think I’m going to miss you most of all.”

Gotta to love it when your mind gets things so right!


Patience Trumps Writer’s Block

The discouraged Nenene suffering from writer's...
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think writers are best defined as mentally bipolar. Either you are up or down, there’s no in-between.

I have little time for writing and when a great opportunity for uninterrupted creativity arises, I’m usually at a loss. My cycle of inspiration gets out of sync with my opportunities. Maybe I’m trying too hard? Have I used up all my genius already?

ADD of the brain makes me want new exciting projects once I have dabbled and have felt adequate at a writing task. My gut reminds me that dedication and toil separates those who want to be authors from those who are. I don’t really believe it though.

Instead, I wait. I don’t stop thinking…but inspiration has its own timing and I believe if it is pursued too aggressively, it can dissipate like a cloud observed for scientific study rather than one noticed by a dreamer.

This post, this day…I refuse to give up…What I can do is wait.

Random Word Story #12~ Too little…Too late

Panic attack

random words generated at

I plan to add an extra word to each exercise. This time I have six.

trap…stock market…backpack…fireman…ticket…wood

Here’s my story:

“You need a vacation.”

Those words echoed in her brain until she could not ignore them anymore. Gillian decided to take her boss’ advice and called into work Sunday evening. She put in for one week off.  It bothered her tremendously, though. Six years had passed since her last vacation and her office was a finely tuned machine, you know?

She packed until 3:00 am then jumped behind the wheel of the Subaru Outback, that she had rented the day before,  and set out for an unknown destination. She felt inspired and free behind the wheel. Had it been a whole year since she had driven? It felt like the first time. She even held the steering wheel at 10:00 and 2:00 o’clock like a beginner.

“Relax lady, the world and the stock market will go on in spite of you. You need a break.”

Again her boss’ words gave her the permission she needed to shake things up. She summed up her recent “break down” as intense. She was a proverbial hamster on a wheel in a trap of her own making. It was up to her alone to break free and live. She scarfed down her meds and managed to continue.

As she took the ticket and entered the “on ramp” to the interstate. Her chest tightened. It was happening again! Her vision became spotted and she briefly let go of the wheel to rub her eyes.

When she opened them, a fireman was before her with a mask on. He was carrying a backpack of oxygen and waving his arms. Black smoke was rising from the Subaru which was 100 yards down the ramp laying on its side and she was sitting upon a pile of wood. Wooden planks were everywhere! To her right, was a tractor-trailer truck with only a few boards remaining in its cargo bay. It was leaning against a telephone pole at an odd angle in a limbo, off-balance and nearly empty.

At the hospital, Gillian was treated and released.Lucky as she was, she felt helpless and weak. The sight of the truck kept flashing in her mind.

“Off balance and nearly empty.” Gillian repeated this to herself  50 times as she went home. She needed to call the office right away.

Her voice sounded oddly disconnected from her body when she resigned over the phone. She desperately hoped it was not too late for her…

Random Word Story #6-A Different Drum

Random words generated at Creative

My rules:

Keep the words given. (no substitutions)

Create a story in one sitting.


Here’s my story:

Jenna was absolutely sure she would be a famous actress one day. She was the youngest of seven children born to a family of dust mites. They all thought work was the only thing that mattered and she was the only one who knew different.

A number of times, as they toiled in the family garden, she took on a role. This time, while sitting on top of the wheelbarrow, she became Cleopatra being carried along by slaves. She was fanned with huge ostrich feathers as thousands knelt along her path. She imagined her body covered in indigo silk and golden baubles lined her arms to her elbow. Her arms felt heavy as she waved to the applause of her subjects. The pearls of sweat rolling down her cheeks were merely jewels that  dangled from her crown.

“Jenna, get off of there and help your brother.”

How she disliked it when her father’s voice popped the bubble of her illusion. Now, nothing but mud surrounded her. Her emerald embossed slippers were  just rubber boots and her silken gown became a hand-me-down pair of jeans. As she trudged to the tool shed, she found herself  in the jungle. Quicksand grabbed at her as the humidity soaked her to the skin. A shadow over head was a buzzard circling, waiting for death to claim her. She could hear the drum beats. The natives were restless and she needed to cross the river of hippos in order to put them safely behind her!  She dove…her life depended upon it.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

Mom stood above her with her hands on her hips.

Jenna’s face was scraped from forehead to chin. She picked herself up and continued to the shed without saying a word. When she reached it she found that her pants were ripped. There was a huge grass stain on each knee…wait a minute, it was blood! Her leg had been bitten off by a crocodile! As she limped inside the tool shed, she could hear the drum beats getting closer…


I’ve lived a sheltered working life. Even though my days are long and pay is short, I have always worked at home. In well over thirty years I have had only 2 sick days. If I am “under the weather”, I can wear a bathrobe. If it’s snowing, I have no car to clean off and no treacherous roads to navigate.

My husband has taken some vacation time at our “camp” this summer and I have had the opportunity to be a commuter. I’ve been driving about 40 minutes from New York State to my home to be there early in the morning for my day care kids. (I really dislike the heat and humidity and opted to work in an air-conditioned environment rather than play in the heat.)

It is good to try new things and I have a greater respect for all you commuters now. My dog doesn’t care for commuting since he likes to sleep in until 7:00 am. At least he doesn’t have to drive. The old thought wheels turn in my head especially in the morning and it’s creepy when I realize there are sections of roadway that I do not recall driving through. My hands are at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock and my posture is erect so I know my driving is defensive BUT was I careful enough? The early morning trek is through rural areas and I am super vigilant about deer on the move. If I were to drive that road everyday, I am sure the idea of “if” I hit a deer would change to “when” I would. Luckily the summer commute takes place after sunrise.

My boasts of a perfect driving record carry little weight for me now. How many hours have I really driven? How many chances have I been forced to take? Yikes! I think I’ll keep my mouth shut and leave the driving to you.

Ode to a Newby Blogger

Overwhelmed, excited prickles

Getting into “pickles”

Can’t find the proper apps

Oh no , my lock’s on caps

First love is to create

but set-up just can’t wait

I want the perfect style

It’s gonna take a while

Push publish on the run

Still I feel undone

A comment just came in

It ended with a grin

I rack my brain for prose

Sincere as all of those.

Please don’t think me dumb

This process has me numb

I hit the button send

Before I reach the end

I’m finally in the pink

You send a foreign link

Frustration makes me click

Hey, that made blogging quick

People are so nice

They add the perfect spice

This is one messy gruel

But,blogging’s really cool

I know I’ve made a friend

MY newby time will end

They never called me lame

Treat newby’s all the same

I’ll  help all that I can

Newby? Take my hand 🙂