It was murder. Morde! Muerter! Esmoreden!

Switzerland is famous for its incredible awe-inspiring beauty, and rightly so.  When I viewed my first mountain with its cap of white snow, I almost reached out to see if it was a painting or real. 

The people of Switzerland are polite and well-educated, and the unemployment rate is near to nothing.  And most have a dog or two, which are also polite and well-trained.  The canine walk on leash, silent, and discreet in relieving needs, which the owner promptly removes with a Swiss provided bag and disposal sites along the sidewalks.

Scrumpy and Porter (named for types of English beers)

My daughter Mary and husband Richard had two dogs, Porter and Scrumpy.  Porter had a stoic dignity about him; he kept feet warm, let my grandson climb over him, and considered himself to be superior to his fellow dog, Scrumpy.

Scrumpy was a fun-loving and likable mutt, with mixed terrier tendencies and low on the intelligence scale.  If there was to be something destroyed in the house, Scrumpy was guilty while Porter shook his head. Scrumpy..Scrumpy.

The Swiss also have professional dog-sitters: people who are prepared with all the needs a dog might have.  Mary and Richard have left Porter and Scrumpy with a lovely lady on many trips, where dogs are happy.

One two week holiday had an unusual twist in the regular day's activities.  Life for Porter and Scrumpy had been proceeding just fine, until this one afternoon.

Harry's general size 

The lady had two large old pet tortoises named Bernard and Isle which also occupied the dog yard. along with a new small tortoise, Harry.. Bernard and Isle had a platonic, complacent relationship with all the other dogs. Porter and Scrumpy had stayed there several times.

 

So it was a big surprise to all when Scrumpy raced toward the Harry, and scooped him up.  He shook it side to side to side.  Then Scrumpy threw him in the air, where the little guy turned end on end, landing with a thump on his back.

Scrumpy moved in for the kill—dogs seem to know how to do this.  With his front paws, Scrumpy disemboweled the small tortoise.

Porter had been laying under the shade of a tree, observing his impulsive friend do all this, gave one bark, which said it all:  Damn it, Scrumpy, you idiot!  Scrumpy happily jogged over to Porter, a jaunty wag of his tail singing his victory.

The owner lady came screaming and cursing.  How it all ended, I don’t know. Mary and Richard were rather silent on this, while Benjamin still loved to chase Scrumpy around the house.

But I do know this: Scrumpy and Porter were no longer welcomed at her house.

This is a re-post from 2018  My two grandsons are Benjamin now age 14 and James is 8.  Porter and Scrumpy died of extreme old age. Now they have a dog named Waffle and Benjamin has 3 rats. .

An Almost Word...

                                                                        
                                                           

https://www.gettyimages.com/

Buzzing, flitting--

Out of reach.

Evading defiantly:

A drunken gnat of memory.

Tantalizing with maybe,

Could be, almost…

Sleep descends,

Eyes heavy in a curtain of dark.

Hidden letters a-b-c stretch out,

Swatting the inebriated midge.

The almost-name, almost-word

Rises from the hazy smoke

Of buried, cluttered

Memory

I wrote this in 2013, back before the senior citizen years began.

This means so much to me now that I have reached this age and my brain taunts me all the time. Damn it. 

Saddest stones of all

 

San Marcos, CA cemetery 
Once a quiet country place

Now, surrounded by streets and noise,.

Beneath gnarled olive trees

Three stones.

Old stones—

1920s old.

“Baby” carved in the first stone
.

Below it, “Baby” in the second stone.

At the bottom of the line of three,

“Baby”

Old stones—

Lonely stones.

Forgotten stones.

 

After one Veteran's Day service, I took roses picked from bushes at my house over to a small cemetery in our community. There were so many gravesites that ranged from Civil War through WW1, old gravestones. Hidden among those were these small insignificant ones. There must have been so much pain from these deaths that those precious babies were given their own place in history. God bless them and their parents.

 

The Pilgrim Soul

  

When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

 

 

Camping for the Uninformed

Seth was relieved to complete the near vertical climb through deserted stretches of trails overlooking Las Vegas.  Seth cleaned his dusty spectacles and gazed at blinking lights below.

Ha!  And Dave said I couldn’t do it!  Seth smiled as he thought of his brother’s derision as he loaned his camp gear to novice camper Seth.  But his gloat was fleeting as he realized the sun was almost behind distant mountains, and he had yet to set up camp.  The full moon was moving behind heavy clouds and it would soon be completely dark.

Frantically Seth tried to find a suitable patch of ground that wasn’t rock hard.  He tumbled down into a trench where the softer ground made hammering spikes easier.  The tent was up in minutes with the Coleman lantern blazing.   Ha! He said again, as he dropped trousers to urinate into the dry ground. Giggling as the yellow stream flowed, he mused how indecent this had been in the streets of Las Vegas, maybe. 

As he dozed off warm and cozy within Dave's tent, he heard the thunder in the mountains and enjoyed the sound of rain falling upon the tent. 

When the ground rumbled and shook, Seth leaped outside the tent just in time to see the wall of water and mud roaring toward him along the gully.  His last thoughts were, ‘Dave is gonna be really pissed about the tent….’

 

gully washer in action

This is a 2013 Wed. words from the early days. It is a writing challenge for bloggers to use the above underlined words to be creative. I wrote this after going on a bad camping experience, channeling the emotions into this blog. The underlined words come from that weeks challenge.

Please check out Wednesday Words and Prompts at drifting slowly

We have gone camping many times over the years. The only mistake we made  was my husband pitching the tent on red ant hill. Not a good thing. 

The Circus Capital of the World: Sarasota, Florida

 

Florida! The perfect place for circuses to settle for winter!

 Sarasota was the Circus Capital of the World.  The animals that were part of the circus world needed the same care as any person. 

It was where the traveling circuses came to renew themselves and their performers to create. Some of those people decided it would be a fine place to live and retire.

Please be patient and read this if at all possible. It is extreme, using comparative phrases. It is what it is.     

Dr. Henry, veterinarian,  provided treatment for a wide assortment of animals, from big to small, mammals or birds or reptiles, owned by the population. 

The line to the office wound out the door and around to the parking lot, where a huge circus tent was set up for larger animal patients, as well as curious tourists from all countries. Their tickets were only $5. 

Assistants who worked with Dr. Henry could never be chicken hearted. Linda had been a high wire performer but retired to help in the vet's office. She was always as busy as a bee.

 As always, his patients were never the same usual animals. One owner Nancy, who had been acrobat, brought in Lady as happy as a dog with two tails could be. Dr. lanced the abscess under the anus carefully, avoiding the two tails that whipped around with happiness.

Next came Goofy Bill, who had been a clown, holding his cat Fluffy, whose claws got his tongue.  It wasn’t pleasant but Fluffy survived

The third owner was Lucy the Limber contortionist, with mildly sedated bison Melba, which was taken to the tent. There Melba had a whale of a time chasing other pets who didn't stay away from the heavy enclosure that held her. 

All the locals (who hung behind an iron bar security fence) were in the tent taking bets on who would be tossed in the air first. They were not terrified too often.

The fourth patient was a hybrid blend of a wolf and sheep, owned by the bearded lady, Princess . No details were given about the wolf in the sheep’s clothing creation or what brought it to the doctor. No one wanted to know.

And then, came the retired circus leader, Major Windy, with his pet elephant, Melody.  No one could ignore that elephant in the tent.  

By that time the whole town was crowded in the tent watching to see if the bison would chase the elephant.  How it ended, no one knew since they were all running for their lives.

At the end of the day as Dr. Henry closed the door he smiled. It had been another rewarding day. 

The alligator didn’t come but would tomorrow. He smiled. Oh how he loved his work.

Many thanks to any reader who managed to get through the story that came to be by using unusual sentence fragments. 

The italicized segments are from Elephant's Child (who sadly passed away this past year) who managed to find or any findable words to challenge bloggers in Blogger world.  Did you have ants in your pants, with each passing sentence? So silly to write that, but the whole post is like that.

I really enjoy challenges like these. These strangest words always provide lots of entertainment for me as the writer. 

 These are the gourmet from which to choose:

the elephant in the room;     as busy as a bee;     as happy as a dog with 2 tails; chicken hearted;     a wolf in sheep's clothing;     cat got your tongue;     having a whale of a time;     ants in your pants

.

Jesus is alive, Grandma

 

Theology 101 according to a four year-old.

After I pick up Sunshine from Gateway Christian Preschool, we always have lunch together.

Having lunch with Sunshine is always an interesting event, even if it involves copious amounts of pbj, milk, and applesauce.  All it takes is a simple question, and her vast wealth of knowledge and opinions come flooding out like gold coins from Scrooge McDuck’s vault.

All I have to ask, “What did you learn at school today?”

Just before Easter, Sunshine’s eyes brightened at that question, and without missing a bite of pbj, or a drop of the jam from the oozy edges, Sunshine told me.  “I learned all about Jesus.  And, Grandma, did you know…”  

She paused for a swig of 2% milk, and to allow me to mop off her face.  “Did you know that Jesus gotted nailed to a cross?  That’s a thing that has two pieces of wood that make a small ‘t’.  The bad Romans (Where did she hear about them, I wondered.) took big nails, Grandma, really big nails.”  She spread her hands about a foot apart.  “And then they hammered them through Jesus’ hands, really hard.  Right through Jesus’ hands.” She pounded the table.. 

Her wide blue eyes made contact with my green eyes, to make sure I understood what she said.  Oh, I understood.  I could feel His bones breaking, and the blood dripping onto the wood.  My green eyes became misty with tears.

With casual care, Sunshine licked off the strawberry jam that she had squeezed out from the bread, on purpose.  She likes to do that, and I don’t blame her; so do I.

“Then they stood the cross up like this,” Sunshine demonstrated with her yellow IKEA plastic spoon, “and dropped it in a hole like this.”  She brought down the spoon hard into the bowl of applesauce.  “That woulda really hurted, you know.”

Again her eyes looked deeply into mine, checking for understanding just like any good teacher would.  Oh, I understood how the cross would have hit the ground with a vibrating thud, and how this would have shook Christ’s body with waves of pain.  My eyes blinked at hers several times.

She told me the whole story, event by event, while I remained very still, listening and watching as my almost 5 year old granddaughter explained salvation to me.  “Miss Kenny gived us each a paper cross we color on, and I decided to color my cross like a sunset.”  I looked confused, I suppose, for now she patiently explained her ideas as if I were only 4 years old.  

“You see, Grandma, the red is for the Blood of Jesus, which He gave away so we can see Him in Heaven.  Then the orange is for the sunset when Jesus died.”  Another bite of pbj, and the last swallow of milk.  

“Can I have some more milk, Grandma?”  Without missing a beat while I automatically poured the milk into her pink IKEA cup, Sunshine lowered her voice to a whisper.  “Then I used yellow.  You know why I used yellow?” 

I shook my head, for at this point I didn’t want to or couldn’t talk.  “Well, the yellow is for sunrise, when Jesus got up out of His grave.  That meaned that He wasn’t dead anymore, that He was alive!”  She slammed her hand on the table.  “He went up to Heaven! There!  See, Jesus is alive!”

With the last bite of pbj, and the last swipe of the spoon around the bowl of applesauce, Sunshine finished up.  “Then I colored around the cross in blue, ‘cause Jesus went up to Heaven, and He’s waiting there for all of us.”  She gazed into my eyes and asked, “Grandma, why are you crying?  This is good news, not bad.  Jesus is alive!”

I pulled her into my lap and wrapped my arms around her.  Sunshine wiped her gooey face into my tee-shirt, and filled me with her warmth.  Yes, He’s alive, Sunshine.

Susan Kane

April 27,2011

This is 15 years ago.  I had forgotten about until I checked comments in Hold for Moderation section.  Sunshine is now 20, taller than me, with the amazing blue eyes.  And she still knows what Jesus did for us.

What is a good book? A mediocre book? Or.....

 

 What determines a good book from an indifferent book?  Or just a darn bad book? How do I began?

Perhaps this guidelines will help:

A book can be declared good? How to decide if the book is not interesting?

 

 

When it moves from being a bathroom reading book to a book-by-the-recliner, in one flush then it must be read.

A book from a garage sale box marked 25¢? It may look great, but it has never been read, with only the first 5 pages turned.  One can buy it, but it will eventually end up in one’s own 25¢ box.

When the reader resumes at page 147 and a few hours later, moves the bookmark to page 245: This reader wants to find out what happens next.

When a book works its way from the “high interest” shelf and works its way down to the bottom shelf where there is a stack of Kohl’s ads and some two year old magazines, the book did not pass muster.

And

When the book one is thinking of buying at the used book store, one notices pages are folded down in the upper corner many times by different people.  And, also, there are notes made in margins.

It is hoped that these observations are helpful.

This is what I have determined over time. The last book I opened was one that had so much promise, but it fizzled out by chapter 2.  I am going through my pile of books and deciding if they should go somewhere else. Sad, they all seemed so interesting at first blush. 

Massacres of all types

massacre 

 

noun

1. 

the unnecessary, indiscriminate killing of a large number of human beings or animals, as in barbarous warfare or persecution or for revenge or plunder

2. 

a general slaughter, as of persons or animals

the massacre of millions during the war

.  

Massacre on a grand scale is brutal and grotesque.  It cannot be hidden or ignored.  The results clearly scar the world with undeniable evidence.

But, what about massacre that goes unseen, unrecognized?  The NEVER recognized massacres?  But they exist all the same.

Environmentalists and scientists declare the massacre of threatened species cannot be reversed. To choose just one species to write about is impossible.

 

Massacre of 1 million American Bison in 1800s 

But the worst massacre of all is...

Another massacre that exists on a grand scale, but which has created great debate is the destruction of newly-forming life: abortion. 

Politics being what they are and staunch personal beliefs collide here.  Is this simply a multi-cell organism that can be removed at the convenience of the female?  

Or

 

Is this a living baby with the potential to grow and become a fully functioning human being?

Since 1974, the number of abortions numbers in tens of millions.  If this were a massacre of an existing population, the outcry would be deafening.  (Note:  No photos will be shown here.  Statistics can be found by clicking on the underlined above.  Thanks.)

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg was active in her support of Roe v. Wade passing, allowing for abortions.  Click on the site below  for information.

One statement she made during the interview ("Frankly, I had thought at the time Roe was decided, there was concern about population growth and particularly growth in populations that we don't want to have too many of.")

 

 Gov. Maura Healey (D-MA) on Monday signed a bill passed by the state legislature at the end of July that allows for elective abortion through all weeks of pregnancy based upon the professional judgment of a medical doctor performing the abortion. This is available up the day before the birth, at full term.

 

Question:  These quiet massacres—the ones that occur quietly around the clock—do they infuriate you the way they do me??  How do you react to the ones above?

 

Just think about this and go from there.

 

Comments have been turned off for this post.   

 

To be the Queen of the Carnival

 

 Today I am thinking of Caroline.  

I see her with her dark straight hair, smooth dark skin, living in a land of Wonder Bread.  In my mind, she is surviving with her brothers and parents, moving from place to place, always starting over.  I see her catching the bus, eyes cast to the ground, hoping no one would notice her.

I can see her yet, a small teenage girl, shivering with anxiety.  A dark skin among a sea of all white, Caroline was drowning.

It was strange then and even now to me.  

On Friday near the end of May, our bus had bumped down a dust and gravel road, everyday passing a weedy patch, hiding a rusted and faded single wide mobile home. With weeds almost engulfing it, this tin can of a home for years had been empty, with overhead wires feeding it power, and buckets to carry for water.

Then, on Monday there parked by the battered trailer was an equally rusty station wagon.  

On this Monday, Caroline stood waiting where gravel met weeds.  She ducked in quickly, and scooted over in the seat behind bus driver.  She shrank down into her shell, dark straight hair shading, covering her face.

Days careened into each other, until the bus stopped to release Caroline on the last day of school.  And that seemed to be it, no more stops and hiding behind her hair.

Carnival!  Yearly Carnival weekend arrived for its annual weekend of wonder and excitement! Lights and games and rides--glamour and side glances at the exotic carnies!  

In the middle of rides and games stood a booth for choosing "Queen of Carnival".  A photo of each candidate hovered over a gallon glass jar, where one could drop some coins.  The winner would be the one with the most coins, meaning not just pennies, but some silver as well.

I looked at each familiar face, lovely young women all of them.  Donna?  Betty? Maryanne? ...and then there was a photo of Caroline over an almost empty jar. Caroline?  Is that you?  

Caroline and her family walked around the Wonder Bread street.  Whispers followed them--Indians? You know, the ones in tents and rode horses...? India?  My dad was in India during the War... Dark skin and straight coal black hair, deep brown eyes were proud, defying, almost angry.

The sun set on a last night when a queen would be chosen and crowned, culmination of all the lights. 

In the moments before the jars were to be collected, Caroline''s brothers carried bags of coins to pour into an almost empty jar sitting beneath the photo of Caroline''s smiling face.  Handfuls of coins rained into the jar, over and over, until overflowing. 

Judges walked around and looked at each photo, at each jar.  Stopping at Caroline's coin filled jar, each nodded.  One took her photo and walked up steps of park's bandstand.  Standing at the foot of the steps were Caroline's family, dark eyes reflecting bright lights as only a carnival could have.

When her name was announced...

 

This is not the crown of that night, just vague memory. 

she stood tall, a queen in Wonder Bread land, walking up steps.  A crown was placed on her dark hair while Caroline cast a brilliant smile across the town.  Her father stood proudly, tears down his face. His daughter.  His girl was queen. 

For the entire summer, whenever Caroline and her family ventured into town to shop, she always wore her crown.  Every single time that lovingly made for another queen"s crown--Ella Evans whose late daughter had worn it 20 years ago as the carnival queen--perched upon her dark hair, now pulled back away from her glowing face.

When it was time for our bus to begin making its its daily journey, the car was gone, leaving the trailer, new weeds growing.

Queen Caroline moved somewhere, taking a glow of one night when she was crowned.

Where did she go? Does she still wear the crown?

I saw this as a teenage girl myself. My breath caught in my chest as she beamed with the crown upon her head. She was so beautiful, the most beautiful queen ever.

Some aspects had to be changed for the fluidity of the story. 

Kindness is needed

Random Acts of Kindness Blog Fest

 

Standing in a long queue at the pharmacy is always stressful.  It often seemed to Nancy as she needed medication for shingles and was at the end of an emotional tether, all the people ahead of her needed so much. 

Some needed translations into Spanish.  Some needed calls made to their doctors.  Some elderly people needed a multitude of help.

Source: COBRA Soft

Nancy needed to return home; shingles was eating up any energy she had.  But she would not give up her spot in the line, since she was the next person up, after a frail old woman finished talking with the pharmacy technician.  Nancy gritted her teeth, and then overheard the old woman speaking.

“That much?  It costs that much?”  She opened her wallet.  “I don’t have enough…I guess I will have to wait until next week to pick this prescription up…”

Source: bies

The technician explained to her that the doctor said she needed to start taking this prescription today.  The woman stepped away and said she would have to think about what she could give up today, so she could buy the medicine.

Nancy took her place in front of the technician.  Impulsively, Nancy leaned in and whispered, “How much does that woman need to pay for that prescription?”

The technician hesitated, but leaned forward and whispered, “About fifteen dollars.” 

Nancy checked her purse.  She had a five, three ones, and one twenty dollar bill.  She pulled out the twenty.  “Here…I’ll pay for her prescription, but you can’t tell her who gave the money.”

Surprised, the technician took the money.  As Nancy left the counter and walked through the store, she heard the elderly woman called over the speaker.  Then she heard the woman exclaim.  Relief was in her voice.

Nancy smiled.  She needed to hear that.

This is a true story.  I was there.  With my shingles.

 

Resilience, thy name is loquat.

 This is not our daughter's tree. But if it lives more decades, it could be.

 

Standing at the window, I had gazed out at the back lawn through a rare misty rain.  The neighbor’s liquid amber trees were budding out, even while a few stubborn dried leaves clung to the branches.  The daffodils were nearing then end of their glory, giving up the yellow gold that had bravely appeared when spring was just a vague hope.  There, at the back fence, stood the most resilient tree in this family’s fourteen years together: the loquat tree.

It had grown to nearly six feet, and the new growth will take it even higher.  That may not seem so spectacular, but one needs to know its humble beginnings and its near-death experiences to appreciate how amazing this tree is.

My daughter and her then-new husband had purchased the tree during the early weeks of their marriage.  They had planted it in the narrow backyard of their first house.  It was a healthy, well-established tree, and the leaves were lovely and green.  They loved it, but their black lab, Shelby, loved it even more.  That dog loved it so much, that in just a few weeks, she had chewed the tree down to within four inches of the ground.  After that, Shelby must have felt the tree was over and done with, and ignored it.

When they moved to a new house, my son-in-law dug up the tree, while my daughter scoffed, “Leave it!  That thing is dead and nothing will revive it.”  But, he re-planted it in a half-wine barrel in their new backyard, where the loquat must have felt safe enough to start growing a tentative trunk.  When it was about two feet tall, Shelby re-discovered it.  Same fate, poor tree.

Shelby went to dog heaven, and my son-in-law dug up the loquat tree.  He re-planted it on the sloping ground separating his house from the back neighbor’s house.  Nothing happened initially.  However, I was looking out the window, and saw a tree that I didn’t recognize.  “Oh, that’s the loquat tree that Shelby loved so much.”  I was astounded. 

Nature is resilient.  People are resilient.  We see it all over the world.  I saw it in the backyard, through a rare misty rain.

 

 This is a post from 2013... At that time, I waxed loquaciously in my writing. Now, I am pithy and in a short story feeling. Less words is more? As my hands hurt and my head is reluctant much of the time.

Black is the color of my true love's hair

The only live performance of her singing is from 1959. It was grainy and difficult to follow.      

                                                     

Joan Baez has had an amazing career.  Her voice—that incredible soprano voice—rang out as a voice of our generation.  There are too many roads to take down this topic, the wide genre of her songs.  Instead, the one song that rings clearest in my memory is “Black is the color…”

A question niggles in my brain:  What is it about the color black that pervades the design world?

Why are TV remotes black? Is it possible that Sony or RCA want us to lose the remotes in the dark recesses of sofa cushions knowing that the black remotes will remain hidden?

 

Why are many purse linings black, or nearly black?  Is it possible that, by making the linings dark, little items (nail clippers, lipstick, lip-gloss) will disappear, thus requiring further purchases?

 

Why do fancy dress events involve black/dark suits and dresses?  The ‘little black dress’: Why is it the important dress in the closet?  

For that matter, why do members of the Clergy wear black cassocks, black suits, black nun habits, etc.?  Why?  

In the beginning two questions, the color black perhaps denotes dignity and stylishness.  In the last question, maybe the color black indicates a desire to shed worldly attachments. Just guessing here...

Teenagers seem to go through an ‘all-black-Goth’ stage.  Black hair, black clothing, coal-black eye make-up—this is supposed to shout out to the world that they are individuals making a statement.  

Oddly, when they are all together, they appear to be wearing uniforms.

Spies, burglars, movie villains, and Harry Potter characters all are dressed in black.  The Adams family—stylish black clothing.  Matrix—really cool black clothing. 

Enough of this rant.

Anyway, enjoy this song.

I wrote this in 2013, and came across it recently. Why, I don't know. The underlined words are from Wednesday words challenge that I fitted into this homage to black, and to Joan Baez.