Sunday Poser #73- Easy Does It

Sadje has invited us to respond to her Sunday Poser Question.

I don’t know if I got used to not keeping a schedule before I did childcare for the better part of my life, or childcare inspired me not to keep a strict routine.
When I recall how ‘last minute’ I was with school assignments, I’m inclined to think it’s the former. It may seem odd to care for kids and NOT have a routine. I’m sure some people do. But kids live life ‘in the moment’. Appreciating that myself, is probably why I was drawn to kids (and all kinds of animals). What I’m doing at any given moment is the most interesting thing.
I joined a bowling team once… having to be there at a specific time was just too much for me! That experiment lasted two weeks. LOL
I can’t imagine watching a backhoe digging in the driveway and breaking away from that interesting experience according to the demands of a clock. Deadlines, schedules, and routines ruin my life experiences more often than enhance them. I’m oddly very punctual at scheduled events. (I just want to get them over with, as soon as, possible.)
When my husband and I are at our camp, guess when we eat meals? When we feel hungry, of course. Because we’re happily busy there, it’s most often, only once a day and likely not together. We’ll enjoy a few adult beverages at day’s end together though. Day’s end isn’t even a specific time. 😉
I take blogging the same way. Some days it’s one fun ‘write’ after another, and other days, something else captures my attention. (I don’t have ADD or Autism. I’ve checked. lol)
I can leave blogging alone for extended periods, like weeks or even months. Actually, rediscovering it after a long absence, is its own kind of fun.
I hope this post serves my blogging friends as a warning. If I don’t respond to a comment, I’m not ignoring you. I haven’t seen it yet. 😀

https://lifeafter50forwomen.com/2022/03/27/sunday-poser-7

MLMM Sunday Writing Prompt- Staying Invisible

This week’s Sunday Writing PromptSpeak Now, or Forever Hold Your Peace

See the source image


Chester was five years old before he spoke his first sentence. It’s a good thing he did because it was, ” The barn’s on fire.”.
The shock of hearing words escape his lips almost eclipsed the message. His parents sat with their mouths agape for several moments before it sunk in.

How he knew that the barn was on fire was never asked.
His early warning saved the day and that’s all that mattered.

When he entered school, Chester rarely spoke and many folks assumed he just couldn’t talk because they’d never witnessed it. Sort of like denying the existence of Big Foot, it’s just easier to pretend he isn’t real than to probe the topic.

Chester enjoyed being inconspicuous. By the time he was ten, nobody even cared if he listened to ‘adult talk’ or gossip. He was practically invisible.

In the Summer of Chester’s eleventh year, a rash of thefts began happening around his small town. A carnival was setting up on the outskirts and the townspeople who had lost some livestock, portions of crops, and several tools, started blaming the ‘carnies’. They had no evidence but the theory was spreading quickly.

Heat lightening began lighting up the evening sky on a regular basis. A sweltering heat wave was making the townspeople especially irritable and they concluded the carnies were making off with anything they pleased by the glow of the night sky . An armed mob gathered in the town square and made its way toward the carnival primed to exact revenge.

Chester had watched everyone and everything in the town for all of his life.

He knew it was time for him to speak now, or forever hold his peace.

He cut off the mob and stood in the center of the road.

“Stop.” he said.
The crowd gasped as a group, then fell silent.

Chester started listing all unsolved occurrences since his own barn fire. It was a robotic sounding list that spanned six years! When he concluded, forty-five minutes later, he announced that the ‘aliens’ had done all those things. That they live beneath the old mill pond in their flying saucer and caused the nighttime light shows every summer.

Well, the crowd burst out laughing then sent those carnies running for the hills leaving Chester standing in that road.

Days later, his barn caught fire again.
He got the livestock out then went to bed as it burned to the ground.
Chester enjoyed being invisible and that’s how he remained from then on…


(418 words)


Sunday Writing Prompt, May 23/21 – Speak Now, or Forever Hold Your Peace | Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie (wordpress.com)

Writing Prompt: A place that inspires me.

Between the covers, fresh and white,
The sweetest fragrances delight.
With all the turnings; sleepy dreams,
A soul amongst inspired themes.
This present pause: the wall clock stops,
Translucent images and props.
I’m not asleep yet not “all there”.
A place betwixt the “what” and “where”.
My favored station, berth, and nook,
I’m elsewhere bound inside a book.

Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge: Tuesday, February 9, 2020 | Go Dog Go Café (godoggocafe.com)










Six Sentence Story: Mark

Homeschooling had been discussed but the shutdown of schools nudged them to take that leap.

The kids gathered round the table and simultaneously tapped their laptops.

Moving at their our pace, in their own place, wasn’t only empowering… it was fun.

The morning chatting had run overtime reaching a natural easy conclusion and no one cared.

School days had become layered parfaits of instruction, family values, and exploration on their own terms.

When kids are eager to make their own grade, they’ll certainly leave an extraordinarily personal mark.


~ https://girlieontheedge1.wordpress.com/2021/02/03/its-six-sentence-story-thursday-link-up-145/

Random Word Story #38: Taproots In One Place

broad
sneaky
old
shocking
observe
tree
spell
{ Wicahpi is pronounced Wick-ah-pie}

Wicahpi needed to rest. She sat down harder than she’d intended on a newly toppled tree almost spilling her basket of apples. This last uphill patch to her cottage was always the toughest.
“Oh, that wouldn’t have made me happy, now.” She whispered through he teeth.
She directly addressed the apples next. “You’d make me chase you all back to the bottom. Wouldn’t you, now?”.
Her waist length gray braid swept the ground as she bent forward to steady her precious bounty. She fingered the pencil thin tip of it as her eyes followed the last section of path leading home. Once upon a time, many young men made repeated climbs up that trail to try to sweep her away from the mountain. None were successful. Wicahpi had lived alone for forty-five years and liked it.

wicahpi11cad861547020ec2fb2056185615605

Her deep brown eyes had dimmed a bit, yet, she had those same fine features of the once beautiful woman who’d broken so many hearts. They’ve just been a bit harder to make out, these days, beneath a weathered ninety years of exposure to the outdoors.
Wicahpi squinted as she scanned the canopy of the hardwood forest. It was getting late. A sudden breeze rattled the dying leaves of early autumn trying to shake them loose.
Her thoughts sharply turned to the vixen she hoped to observe again at dusk. Her new friend had come out along the broad stone wall for the last three evenings. They had created an almost enchanted attachment simply through studying each other from afar.
“A little farther, now. I won’t be late, my lady. I’ve slowed a bit, now. I won’t be givin’ up yet.”
As she hoisted her basket, she suddenly became overwhelmingly thirsty. Wicahpi felt her knees buckling, and one shocking moment later, she opened her eyes finding herself lying on the ground beside the frog pond behind her comfortable lifetime home.
“How’d I get so old that I’ve lost my strength AND my mind?” she grumbled.
Wicahpi glanced toward the cottage that her father had built. There was no place on earth she felt safer. Not that she’d traveled at all but one knows when they have “taproots in one place” as her Daddy put it. Her words came out feebly, ” I…I’m fine. I’ll be fine, now.”.
She hesitantly rolled to her knees and sat on her heels. “I’m still flexible, now, aren’t I?”. Wicahpi was talking directly at her own reflection in the twilight darkness of the pond. She was accustomed to doing that. In the next moment, she watched her own eyes widen with terror as she felt a whisper on her neck. “Come, Wicahpi. I’m waiting.”
The old woman buried her face in her hands and shouted, “Oh Lord, what kind of spell has been put on me?!”
Almost paralyzed with fear, she slowly dropped her hands and turned her head at tiny increments for a glimpse of who, or what, had spoken in her ear. There, a few feet away, sat the vixen licking her paw.
“What a sneaky thing to do, now! You gave ME the start of my life!”
The vixen whispered once again. “Come, Wicahpi. We’re waiting.”
The creature then padded straight up to her and licked her on the cheek. She looked over her shoulder, just once, as she trotted away into the dark forest. Along the far side of the pond, several pairs of golden eyes blinked alive in the day’s last light. A warm breeze stirred up the leaves then all went silent.

They never found the old lady who was the last of the family who once lived there. Her disappearance would become a chilling local legend. A demolition crew was brought in from the State because local crews were too superstitious to take the job. Eight months went by before bulldozers roared flattening the abandoned cottage and widening the old path into an access road…
all the while, a gray fox, with deep brown eyes and fine features, sat silently within the tree line watching.Urocyon_cinereoargenteus_grey_fox_Aurora_zoo_image_9810

Random Word Story # 36 … No Thanks, Bitsie Banks.

girl_silhouette2

Word generator words: multiply- absorbing- art -stew- possess- halting- plot -sun- perpetual
________

I could go on and on about all the rotten luck leading me to a summer camp where I’d meet my best friend but the “before stuff” doesn’t matter.

It was my first day at summer camp. Mom and Dad wanted me to get to know the kids from our new town. My name is Daisy. My mom’s a florist, enough said. Our house has a perpetual odor of a funeral parlor so I have to put cinnamon sticks in my dresser drawers to counteract it. Sometimes, I dab lemon juice behind my ears, too.

There were about 200 kids gathered in the parking lot of Camp Summer Breeze when, suddenly, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. A tiny, nib of a girl was marching through with arms waving above her head. A great squawking sound filled the air as the crowd fell silent. I thought it was a loudspeaker coming to life but that enormous noise was emanating from that three foot tall child! Her name is Bitsie Banks.

I would come to know that Bitsie’s given name was Bertha after her grandmother. Bertha was a large person’s name, and although her personality was certainly large, she went by the nickname given her by a student body who felt inclined to pick on her.

As I was absorbing the odd scene, Bitsie marched up, halting right in front of me. She lowered her arms, and shouted, “What are YOU lookin’ at?!”.  The volume of her question just about knocked me over!

” You. I’m watching you. ” I said. The crowd gasped in unison. She was such a petite, cute, little girl it was hard to imagine she could possess such an intimidating presence.

She seemed momentarily disarmed by my honesty and walked a circle around me like a drill sergeant.

“You smell like my Grandma’s house!”

” Yeah, I hear that a lot. Why are you shouting?” This time, the crowd didn’t react. Everyone had escaped to the main lodge while we were engaged in being somewhere else. This was the plot twist that would change us both forever. With no audience, we were free to be ourselves.

No one had ever talked to Bitsie the way I did. Like a real person, I mean. Her big brown eyes beneath uneven dark brown bangs, softened. She looked like a sweet, baby mouse. I wanted to pick her up and pet her but I knew better. If you multiply the number of kids, in the earlier crowd, times the ones left, a person knows the odds of getting away with crossing her.

“What’s your name, Smelly?” This time her tone was almost normal.

” Well, close. My name’s Daisy. They aren’t the sweetest smellers. I’ll bet yours is Godzilla.”.
This was the make or break moment. The sarcasm stew that would make me, by day’s end, happy I took a chance.
Bitsie threw back her head and howled with laughter.
“Ain’t you skeert? I can chomp your head off!”
“I’d taste just like your Grandma’s house. You’d get sick.”
From that moment on, the shouting stopped.

As the sun set, there was pink, and orange, on the horizon. Bitsie and I were sharing a bench painting a watercolor for an Art badge. We would be entering the same fifth grade class in the Fall. Our talk went from how we had gotten our names, to our hilarious first introduction, then finished, with our plans for after this camping stint.

I told Bitsie that I liked the mean spirited name she’d claimed and how cool it was that she didn’t let it bother her.  She admitted how much she loved her Grandma’s house AND my aroma. Somewhere along the way we became fast friends.

” Daisy? You probably ought to make other friends tomorrow. Don’t you worry about me.”

“No thanks, Bitsie Banks. You’re all a person can handle… and more than I could have hoped for.”

Crickets seemed mighty loud that night.

#WritePhoto Speaking to Me

storm #writephoto

“What the hey?”

My twin sister and I had one of those “mirror speak” instances that twins often have. The monolith had caught our eye simultaneously. With mouths agape, we were mesmerized bookends on a green knoll.

Our next moment held one of those meeting of the eyes with an unspoken twinkling challenge to a race! Off we ran to inspect the colossal rock. We wouldn’t notice the skinned knees and elbows, we collected from stumbling and falling on the way, until shower time.

This International Girl Scout Jamboree had been terribly boring. Now, a towering rock with chiseled features was about to make all the meetings, seminars, and foreign food choices, worth it!

What a grand anomaly in this green landscape! It stood motionless as we ran our hands along the crevices and squinted upward. As the low clouds stirred a coming storm, it suddenly felt as if it were swaying. I almost fell on my back from the dizzying effect of swift moving skies above such a solid object.

We were in the presence of something ancient. It wasn’t at all supposed to have survived for just our delight. It wasn’t supposed to be a play thing either. I could feel it in my bones. There were inscribed letters in an alien language that spoke to me. My soul well understood with no need for translation.

Again, my sister and I locked eyes. This time, there was depth and seriousness there. She had received the same message… the awesome weight of human history. We backed away this time, bending a bit in homage.

Our arm and arm walk back to camp, was a silent one.

——————–


This photo reminded me of one of my favorite poems.

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

https://scvincent.com