Stone upon Stone in Sand

 

Gray still sky over

Roiling silver sea,

Soaking gold to slate

Slabs of sand.

Satin rocks, ancient rocks

Worn and beaten

Smooth by

Merciless waves.

My brother is dying.

Her whispers cast

To deaf waters.

Salt to salt,

Whispered over and over.

Three speckled rocks

Chosen by grace.

One rock resting

in a noisy room,

Whispering silently

My brother is dying...

One rock for bedside

Where whispers and tears merged.

One rock more--

At last, gazing at her

Blessed brother, eyes closed, 

In steel gray casket.

Tucking a smooth

Ocean stone into icy hand.

My brother has died.

Tears to tears,

Sea to earth,

Cold hand to warm,

Words silenced,

Whispers lie heavy
in the heart. 

 

Dedicated to Robert Peck

 

January 14, 1951 - May 19, 1997

 

My brother

 

Listen to...

Just Listen

Throughout my life, I have taken my own decisions and used them, instead of listening to and knowing that God was in charge of everything. It never went well. God protected me, keeping me safe through my ignorance.

Our body hurts as we grow older. Sometimes that pain is excruciating, sometimes because we/I abused our then young bodies. Oh, how stupid.

Basically, listen to...

multiple injuries

Your joints. We watch sports, some of which can be violently impacted and others are seemingly mild.   Have you watched how crazy some injuries are related to impact sports? Did you know that rodeo has the most horrible injuries? 

Probably the most dangerous sport ever

 Most people can't see the injuries of golf.  It is silent to enthusiasts, but do not see until a
player needs surgery on
every joint.

Your brain: There may be minor things, like your keys, but then that becomes bigger. It is so gradual until life shows that there is more going on. And then.

Death caused by boxing

Your pain: Sounds odd, but it isn't. Diabetes, 
heart, kidneys, you name it. Watch those symptoms. Don't ignore them "Oh, it's just a twinge, just a pain, just a...And then. (Men are notorious for this.)

Considering all those "listen to..", realize that 
you are not immortal, but get over it. God is in charge, and you will do just fine.

We live in a community where all of the above are present. At a recent gathering, many elderly semi-joked about their entertainment is going from doctor to another, on the same day. "It's like a cheap date." Everyone nodded in understanding.

Autumn from Back Where

This a maple tree outside Mom's kitchen window.

 Back in the Midwest, it was as if my world took a deep breath and said, "Finally." Then overnight my life would be surrounded by gold and red.  But now, my world is a desert in southern California and rich color exists in another place.

It makes me hunger for and a little bit jealous of “back where” there is such a thing as autumn.

Instead, we have wildfire season in California and the fall colors don’t exist, except for a few odd trees. What I do have are photos I took in late October 2009 on a walk with my brother, Don.  The photos taken were put into an album to give as a Christmas present for my mother who was in fading and failing health.

These are memories of Autumn and a small town, in 2009:

Tracks will go on for miles and miles, connecting

with other tracks.

An old house next to the bank

Mom's neighbor.  Mom could tell me who they are, who there parents were...

Small rental apartments next to the train track.  This

used to be a veterinarian office when I was young. 

A house near the local funeral home

After my father retired from farming, he visited with other farmers at the John Deere

store every day.  Sometimes he drove to another John Deere store to pick

up parts.  Now they are ordered and delivered through computer 

magic.

The Methodist Church from mid 1800s.  Young couples 

would meet on benches (out of sight) and talk/kiss.

This log house was saved and then moved to this site.  It dates back to 1820 

and across from Stark Nursery, where the first Delicious apples were

created by someone who brought up a "scion" from Kentucky which

was grafted and cross-pollinated.

This house was restored and is now occupied by some very hard working 

people whom my mom knew.  Yes, she could cite their lineage. We

stopped and peeked in the windows while it was still

under construction.  Mom had no shame, and was friendly with everyone, who 

also knew her own lineage.

This is a cornfield after harvest. Soon Canadian
geese will fly in to grab up corn kernels.
Deer will also be foraging.

Somewhere this road will come to an end.

These are Autumn memories from a past shared by my late Mom, brother Don, and me in 2009. My eyes ache to see the leaves and this part of my family, those whom I love.

A repost from 2014

Thursday Trauma: Revenge

This is also posted at Delores' site, Under the Porch Light.  I had so much fun with it that I decided I would put it up here as well.  Please please go to that site to see what some great writers create!!!

“Griz” lit the stacked logs, then stepped back to enjoy the blaze in the fireplace.  His old cabin glowed in the light, and Griz inhaled the scent of spruce. Ah, the memories this place holds.

Add caption

Griz gazed around at the walls laden with his collection of antlers.  The glass eyes of dead bucks reflected a sense of anger. You bastard.

There was a knock at the door and Griz wondered who would be out at this time of night.  He swung open the door and his jaw dropped.  

There, in the moonlight, stood a massive gathering of bucks.  In the lead was the biggest buck Griz had ever seen. 

It stood on its hind legs, and it held a bully club in one front hoof, slapping it onto the other hoof.

Deer gone hunting source

“Griz, we’ve come for revenge.”  And with that, the deer charged into the cabin. 

Crashes and screams lasted a few minutes.  Then all was quiet.

**I grew up in a county noted for deer hunting.  Even sports celebrities flew in to hunt there.

Far from Home

Etsy: $9.00

So far from home.  So very far from home.  These are frequently said in my home.  Photos hold so many memories of childhood days, wedding photos of bright days—all do not do justice for longing of those babies cuddled and now grown.

My daughter now says those words to her own family.  Mary is and has always been an adventurer; she met and married Richard in Cambridge, England.  Now they are in Switzerland, along with 3-year old Benjamin.

Recently she asked to put my quilting skills to work and make some pennants to replace the baby-themed ones that then hung across Benjamin’s wall.

In front of our house

Don’t forget!  Remember us!  Here we are, little man!

Richard and Mary's families

Mary's side of the family

So far from home, but at least now we are almost there.  

Photos are iron-on inkjet printable fabric sheets. Works well enough, but I also sewed around the fabric photos. The pennants are detachable and reversible.

F is for Far, Far away

You are in the right place.

My sister Mary and brother Bill, about summer 1959 on our farm.

“Mama!  Me an’ Mary are runnin’ away!”  Billy exclaimed, holding up Daddy’s lunch pail.  “See, and we gots everything we’re gonna need!”

Mama peered into the pail.  Some little panties, two pair of Billy’s socks, a jar of pickles, and little Dolly.

“Well, Billy, where are you and Mary going?”

“We’re goin’ far, far away!” Billy closed the lunch pail.

“Far ‘way, Mama!” Mary echoed.  “I gots Dolly with me, so’s I sleep good.”  She nodded seriously.

“Where abouts is far far away, Billy?”  

“Way over there, Mama!”  He pointed to the barn.

“Over there!”  Mary repeated.

She gave them each a kiss, and they set on their way. 

As she walked back to the house, Mama heard Billy call over his shoulder. “Be sure to call us for dinner, ‘kay?”

Those memories are so precious to me.  Hang onto your own!

Eighteen Defining Thoughts

Your thoughts....

Share 18 defining thoughts….

I do not think I can hit #18, but will at least write a few.

#1 and most important is my relationship with God.  Even when my beliefs were wobbling, God kept His hand over me, protecting me.  Through Jesus Christ, my sins are forgiven.

#2 is the love my husband and I share.

#3 …my children who are now mature adults.  John and I were young parents, in our 20s, and did not know what we were doing.  Somehow, these wonderful people did not know that at the time.

#4 …writing, which began when I was barely able to read. Pencil on school lined paper or pen on better paper, writing is more than just tossing some words.  Writing is a constant growing experience which expands the brain and makes me smile.

#5 …art.  My aspiration at one time was to be an artist.  Have a minor in art.  I watched my gr-daughters quite a bit when they were young; we did art together, with me teaching. (I had a “Grandma Bag” which carried a variety of art supplies.)  Maybe I will be more active now that my gr-daughters are pursuing other arts.

#6 …quilting…which is also art.  Colors make my heart sing.

#7 …reading and journaling.  Books of all types and genre.  My husband loves astronomy and so do I.

#8 …my siblings are precious to me.  There were once five of us, three brothers and my sister.  Two brothers died while in their 40s. 

#9 …memories of my parents and long-past relatives. 

#10 …the stories from my family that I recall and write down, now with the speed a computer provides.

#11 ...seeing a baby...holding a baby...watching parents holding babies....a baby's smile...

Well, now you have it!  There are more but they would probably seem unimportant when I re-read this.

Baby!

                                                                         

Where I Am From....

A delightful blogger, Molly Bawn has challenged me to write my own take on her wonderful poem/prose about her life story.  You must read it!

 Molly writes with an Irish flow. Delores writes poetry that brings tears. Arleen has wry humor and perspective.  Joanne connects past and present seamlessly.  Dee brings introspection and wisdom with her writing. My own writing is that of a Midwest story teller.  

That said, here is a lengthy post:  

The road home

Take that straight road, the one over there.  Road flows past maple trees, now yellow, bright like birthday candles.  Go on past the corner where the old school house used to be. A mound of crumbled red bricks mark where children once played.

Stay on this road, but not too fast.  Just gaze at those cornfields to the west.  

Good crop this year, tassels are dancing in the breeze, the tangled silk is spilling out the shy ears tightly wrapped  like a present.  Like strands of gold running down the stalks.

Good full corn.  Silk is almost ready to brown.

A row of battered mailboxes are on the left, all people I once knew. Names of people long gone are streaked off.  Strong farmers and patient farm wives.  Good people.  Their paths crossed mine time and again.


That big barn, covered with vines?  Old couple lived on that patch of ground, but their house is almost gone, chewed down by creeping ivy and violent weeds.  Like fingers from the ground wrapping around the wood frame and pulling it into the soil.  

Stretches of field after field drift on across flat land.  Stand of corn over on the right is strong, tall this year.  A parade could hide in the rows.  But the beans on the left?  

Creek flooded its banks, covered the field in knee-deep creek water. Beans turn yellow when saturated roots drown.  Too much water this year, not enough next year.

This angry creek pours it muddy waters out over the fields every spring, but farmers continue planting. "Maybe this year will be better..."  Never is, but farmers stake their lives in hope.

The road will fork off, but a dirt road goes on straight over a quiet creek and by the bluffs.  A rusty old bridge stands astride this wide welcoming creek.  Traveled that road so many times.  

Did my share of splashing in that creek on steaming July days.  So did my folks.  So did their folks.  Life is lived to the fullest in a cold creek on a hot day.

But don’t take the dirt road, although you could, but it’s a long stretch of bumpy back road. It will rattle your bones loose.  And it won't take us where we must go.

Swing over to the road to the left, follow its wide curve like a bow.  Let the road take you slowly, or you’ll fly off into those bean fields.  Don’t want to get stuck out there—that clay mud will suck the car down to the fenders. Seen it happen.

That road will glide over a new wide bridge, put in twenty years ago over angry creek.  Follow the rise to a big house and a mud-splattered truck.  

From there, oh my! from there your eyes will want to rest a bit.

Source

Gaze at rolling land, rich and green.  Fields and cows, barns and houses, trucks and tractors, families with lots of children. 

The Land is everything. Land remains.

Source

So much life! Awe will steal air from your lungs.  

Take your time, look.  

Source

Your eyes may want to race over the velvet land.  Land does not give up its secrets with ease, or let you study footprints stamped deep in the earth.  

Ancient stone arrowheads lie just beneath growing wheat, bones beneath corn.  
Old nations crossed over this plain, dwelt on this land, and faded sadly into mists. 

Wagons once rattled along hunting trails. Houses appeared, disappeared.  

Flash, flash.  

One generation to another builds and leaves.  Always shifting into mists in the west.  

The land stays, but people move on.

Source

Wait!  Now, there. 

That is where I am from, that farmhouse right there!  See it?  Two stories of windows, white paint, green roof?  Turn in at the mail box. The name is almost faded out, but it is still a ghost on the tin.

Quick! The north porch, see it?  The begonias are bursting out of their pots this year.  See those boots?  That means Dad is inside, and Mom is watching out the kitchen window for us.

Look now.  The barn over there? The trees made for climbing?  

Run, hurry inside and don’t blink.  

‘Cause if you do, this will all vanish.  

An older post about "Home" can be found here.

Joy of Words: #2

On Monday, I posted six words for “Joy of Words” flash fiction.  It seems only right that I come up with some piece of 50 words or less.  So here goes:

Viewing disappearing tracks, I sensed that in this place, past and present merged, overlapped.  I inhaled cold winter air filled with memories of winters past.  An indistinct longing swept through me.  Stepping onto uneven ground, I set out to discover where I belonged.