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Archive for the ‘Inspiration Monday’ Category

Thank you, Stephanie, of BeKindRewrite, for your Inspiration Monday prompts. It has been some time since I have written, but I just couldn’t resist the title No One Remembers But Me. It took me back to a time long ago, a walk down memory lane.

NO ONE REMEMBERS BUT ME 

When I close my eyes, I see the two of us, Mom and me, sitting together on the enclosed front porch of our small, white, two-story house. The supper dishes are washed and dried. Lunch is put up for Dad’s long day of logging in the woods tomorrow. I can faintly hear Dad talking to Mr. Brud Gilbert, also a logging contractor, as they sit at the kitchen table, the makeshift desk Dad always uses for his part-time bookkeeping work. My sister, Lu Ann, is off playing with her friend, Marlene, and my brother, Ernie, is swinging from the Tarzan rope in the huge tree behind our house.

On this warm and sultry evening there isn’t even a hint of a breeze coming from the porch screen door or the large, wavy, meticulously clean windows that give us a view to all the goings-on around this part of Main Street. The stifling air doesn’t bother us, though, as we sit together watching sporadic traffic pass by. We recognize each car, know who is in it, and know most of what is happening in their lives and the lives of their families. We even know their joys and sorrows on their personal roller coaster ride through life.

Through the screened porch windows we see Mr. and Mrs. Bouvier drive by at all of fifteen miles per hour, perhaps heading to tell someone who has not yet heard, about the invitation they received a few months back to attend John F. Kennedy and his wife, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy’s presidential inauguration  My paternal grandmother, Mae Lumbert, driving like the hot rod she is, whizzes by in her red VW bug, in a hurry to pick up someone in need of a ride to church services this evening. Mom comments on what a kind woman Grammie is. A couple of minutes later, Butchie Nadeau and Harold Coro fly by on Butchie’s old bike. They both have fishing rods in their hands and Harold is hitching a ride on the front handle bars. We wonder if they are going to crash before they get to the Moose River bridge. Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Smith float by in their large black car. Whenever I see Mr. Smith, it reminds me of the story Dad told me about working for him at Smith’s Hardware Store for a while when he was just out of high school. At the young age of eighteen he needed the work. He was already married to my mom and I was born just after he graduated from school.

Mom looks over at me with a twinkle in her eye, and starts to sing one of her old French songs. The words are coming from deep in her heart. I know them because I always listen intently, not only to her words, but to her voice, a voice untrained to some, but, beautiful to me, and full of love and fun. These are the very songs someone taught her when she was a child sitting with her family and friends on the front piazza at the boarding home her mother, my grandmother, owned and ran.

As she finishes her song, Mom glances my way and asks what the meaning of this song is. I translate the words from French to English for her. She smiles at me, an intimate mother to daughter smile and changes her question. What can we learn from the words of this song? I think for a minute about the song and what it teaches me, what the meaning behind the words are. This song is about a girl who ignores her parents warning not to go dancing on the old rotten wooden bridge. The consequences are disastrous. Sometimes I almost want to cry because some of these French songs are sad. They teach lessons about hard times in life, and hurts and disappointments that result from our choices. We talk a bit about how to make decisions that will benefit us in our own lives.

Mom winks and then starts to sing another French song. This time it is light and funny. I smile and start to sing along with her.  We laugh together because we both know that I can’t carry a tune for the life of me. I can’t even tell the difference between a good singing voice and a bad one. It doesn’t matter, though. Mom loves my voice just the way it is. She always tells me if a song comes from the heart that is what matters.

No one remembers but me…

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Thank you to Stephanie of BeKindRewrite for her prompts. Again, they were all so good. I chose Children’s Prayers with a slight adaptation. This story deals with something many children have had to face. It is true to life and needs to be told for all those young children who deal with things we adults sometimes forget.

A CHILD’S PRAYER

The sobs were coming from a bedroom down the hall, heart wrenching sobs, then gasps for air, sometimes deep, sometimes shallow.

Gina lifted her head from the pillow, and, listening intently, she turned slowly.  She pulled herself up and swung her feet around to the edge of the bed. This was something she never expected to hear.

Swallowing hard, she thought of the many reasons a mother can never get used to the sounds of heartbreak coming from the heart of her child, especially a five-year old, so innocent and loveable.  Her eyes glanced down and saw the brown teddy bear laying next to her feet. She bent, picked it up and hugged it to her chest.

As Gina entered Evan’s bedroom he looked over at her, tears brimming, spilling from his blue eyes and rolling down his cheeks. He pulled the covers over his head.

“Evan, sweetie, can I sit down on your bed next to you?”

“O.K.”

“Can you tell me why you are crying, why you feel so badly now.”

“No.”

Slowly, a blond head with tousled hair peeked up from under the blankets.

“Is it because Daddy isn’t living here any more?”

Her sweet boy’s head disappeared again and the howls of his heart breaking into a million pieces were almost more than she could stand. She lifted his blanket just a bit and put his teddy bear next to his arm and then lifted his arm over his stuffed friend to hug tight. She listened to more of his sobs and his gasping while he tried to catch his breath.

“You know, Evan, Daddy loves you very, very much. He has always told me how special you are to him.  What is the special name he calls you?”.

Evan lifted the blanket and pulled himself up still hugging his little friend.

”His buddy”.

“That’s right. And, I know for a fact,  he doesn’t call anyone else his buddy. That shows how important you are to him and you will always be his buddy, too”.

“But, Mommy, why did Daddy leave me?”

“Remember the other day when you and I went to the beach.  I told you that Daddy is always going to be a part of your life. You will always be able to visit with him and he will come here to visit you. Daddy will always love you.  He hasn’t stopped loving you. He never will.

“But he isn’t here anymore. He left me.”

“Sometimes grown-ups make decisions that are very hard for children to understand. Remember, sweetie, even though he isn’t here anymore you will still see him often. You can call him anytime and when you start kindergarten soon Daddy will be there, too. He can go to your school just like I can. He will never stop seeing you. Never ever stop.”

“Mommy, can I say a prayer for my Daddy?”

“Of course. Let me hold you and Teddy tight.”

“Dear God – Please help my Daddy to come back home. I like it when he tickles me awake and when he cooks I sit on the counter and watch him. I miss him, God. Please, please bring my Daddy back home to me. Amen

As Gina struggled to hold back her tears, she kissed his tear-stained cheek and give him a huge, tight hug.

“Let me tuck you in with Teddy Bear. You know when you feel very sad you can hold him close and kiss him. And when you cry for Daddy, it is ok. Everyone gets sad sometime. There is nothing wrong with that. The important thing to remember is both Daddy and I are your family and we will always love you THIS MUCH, both of us. I will turn off the light now and when you wake up tomorrow morning you can call Daddy to say hi, o.k?”

“I love you Mommy. I feel better. But I still want Daddy to come home again.”

Gina sat on the edge of Evan’s bed caressing his cheeks, those plump cheeks she loved to kiss, and waited until he fell asleep. She watched as his breathing became slow and regular. Then she made her way back to her bedroom, alone.

She shut the door quietly, threw herself on the bed and wept uncontrollably.

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Thank you to BeKindRewrite for this weeks prompts. I have chosen ” What they Wanted me to Be’ as my prompt. Again, thank you, Stephanie!

WHAT THEY WANTED ME TO BE

The cocktail glass reflected the deep claret color of wine Mother was drinking. Her perfectly French manicured fingernails enhanced the thin elegant stem while her dainty protruding pinkie gave proof of her status in life.

“I mention this, darling, because we want the very best for you. After all, your great-grandfather worked extremely hard to establish his legacy.  His trust is not one to be mocked. Your life would have been significantly different had he not been diligent.”

I glanced down at my t-shirt with the large chartreuse fluorescent letters and the blaring motto “Teabaggers gave America a Boehner”, then looked up at my mother and wondered if we were truly related.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom. I am not doing anything great-grandfather would have been upset with, okay?”

“Sweetie, the fact that you didn’t attend the fund-raiser I sent you a ticket for, well, darling, it sends a message that can’t be ignored.”

“Thanks for the visit, Mom. I am NOT getting into another political/philosophical discussion with you. The semester ends in just a few weeks, and, I will be back soon..”  A quick touch of a kiss on her own index finger and then a touch of her finger to Mom’s lips and she was gone, out the door, off to bigger and better things.

After a significant sigh, Dianah, climbed the massive granite staircase and entered her bedroom suite. Walking over to a dresser in the far corner, she pulled the large drawer open. Gently, she unfolded a t-shirt and looked at the message…”Haight-Ashbury…Summer of Love – 1967″. Her mind wandered back to what her life had been while she had attended the University of California, Berkeley.

Dianah’s lips smiled while her long fingernails helped her fold this t-shirt she had never been able to let go. She reflected on ‘what they wanted me to be’ back then, long ago in 1967,  to what she was now.

Her tongue wet her lips, those same lips her daughter recently kissed by proxy finger, and she thought “Ah, yes, what goes around, comes around!”

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Thank you to Stephanie of BeKindRewrite for her Inspiration Monday written prompts. I chose the last prompt and decided to write a Tanka poem for it. Please visit her blog and join in. You will find inspiration there!

Her Nose Gives Her Away

compare and contrast
faces back then with those now
size up and assess
visual paternity test
yes, her nose gives her away

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/katietakespicturesdotcom/6006599007/sizes/z/in/photostream/

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Thank you to Stephanie, of BeKindRewrite for her wonderful prompts. I haven’t written for these prompts for quite some time and am thrilled I had the time to write this week.

Please listen to this song Painted Desert Serenade at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=liZ_lXUvikI. It it one of my favorites and is part of the inspiration for this story, too.

80-YEAR-OLD RUNAWAY

“Do you love me, Lady Jane?”

His throaty whisper stirs even the cilia in her ears and the vibrations carry waves that reach deep in her heart.

Jane, eighty-two years young, whisks away a strand of sliver gray from her forehead, looks into his hazel eyes, tilts her head ever so slightly, teases with an almost wink, then goes back to business at hand, pouring each of them a glass of fine wine.

“They call me a cougar, you know, going after a younger man. After all, you are barely eighty.”

Douglas chuckles as his imagination goes wild. Cougar, prowl, hunt, corner, pounce. He likes it!

“I borrowed Doug’s ’67 390 V8 today. Rides smooth. Maybe we can take it for a spin around the block later. No bucket seats. You know what that means!”

Jane hands Douglas the half-filled glass of wine, her fingers brushing briefly on his, savoring the feel.

“Do I know what that means? Hmm, one hand driving, and one hand…well, not on the steering wheel.”

The cuckoo clock sings. Four times. Douglas calculates quickly. At six chimes, Doug will be home from work, check the garages, know which car he ‘borrowed’ this time, and make his customary phone call. As tolerant as Doug always is, Douglas wonders if it was a mistake selling the home he and Edith lived in for almost fifty-five years and moving in with his son and family. His eyes crease a bit, remembering Edith’s pain as she fought to the end.  Nostalgia aside, he wonders what she would think of Jane?

“Penny for those deep thoughts.” Jane pats and rubs the couch and Douglas sits down, close enough to feel the warmth of her thigh.

“Just thoughts of how empty life would be if Lady Jane hadn’t run into me.”

Jane’s eyes flicker as she remembers how bittersweet that day was over two years ago.  Jim, the love of her life, who didn’t know her face anymore, was ready to let go. They had called her back into the nursing facility, just an hour after she had visited and fed him his dinner. She was running around the corner, wanting to hold his hand one last time, to say good-bye and thank him for all those years, for his love, for their family, for giving all of himself to her. She wasn’t looking, just running. She ran right into Douglas almost knocking both of them down.  She didn’t have time to stop, but yelled out an apology as she continued down the corridor.

Douglas turns to Jane and looks at the beauty old age has given her. Wrinkles, some deep-set and some fine, show the richness of a life well lived. Her beautiful hands, the hands he loves to hold, paper mâché hands he calls them, have shown love to many and now are showing love to him.

Jane cuddles up close, puts her head on his shoulder and Douglas moves closer, too, just in time to hear a soft growl in his ear.

Just then the phone rings. No one gets up and the answering machine clicks on. “This is Doug, looking for my 80-year-old runaway. Please give me a call back.”

Neither of them hear the phone click off.

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BeKindRewrite’s InMonXIII prompts this week were all so good. I wish I had time to write for each of them. I have veered from my regular story writing to attempt a Tanka poem. I have written only a few but I like the form. I chose the prompt  “I (she) Never Breathed”.

She Never Breathed

She could feel his stare
    He moved slowly toward her
And she toward him
    She never breathed; he approached
Walking past her to his wife

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Thank you, Stephanie, of BeKindRewrite, Inspiration Monday XII,  for the excellent prompts. They are all so good.

Paper Towns

Julien rolled down his window and slowed as he passed the paper mill. His throat caught. His gut pulled itself taut, feeling like it was going to wretch. His paper mill, his father’s and grandfather’s, too. Everyone in town felt the same way, it was theirs, belonged to each of them. Their sweat lay behind those concrete walls. Here they had lived more of their lives than in their own homes with their families. This paper town’s heart had always beat to the rhythms and smells of the smoke stack. The stronger the whiff of sulfur and stink, the safer they all felt.

He inhaled deeply…fresh air, a smell foreign to him and to this area, a smell of no paper production. The air didn’t taste right, either. It tasted of lost jobs, of houses abandoned, of corner stores turned into job placement agencies. This Small Town, U.S.A. wasn’t his paper town anymore, not his small town America.

Why had he even come? He had driven through last year and had sworn he would never be back, hadn’t been able to sleep a full night for months after. He thought he would be over it by now, over the memories and losses he had seen and felt, families displaced, moving away from each other, starting again with nothing.

Over it? Never! Mill work pulsed through his blood. The feel of steel etched his mind and the smell of paper, his nose. Rolls of paper twenty-six feet long, five feet wide, weighing tons. Machines were everywhere: paper machines, cutter machines, doctor machines. The mill workers, carpenters, mill wrights, laborers, paper makers, electricians, machinists, they were all him. This had all been him.

The empty parking lot once filled with Chevys, Fords, and Buicks now played host to grass and weeds growing between asphalt cracks. Kids had snuck in and were throwing rocks to see who could hit the window farthest away. The fence they had climbed to get in, broken and rusted. The guard shack was empty, no one there to tell them to skedaddle, play somewhere else.

Fifty-six years ago it had been. He still remembered sitting big and tall in that pick-up, four years old and proud as punch, watching Dad behind the wheel, red cigarette pack stashed under the  short sleeve of his white T-shirt and a Marlborough hanging out of  his mouth.

They pulled in, and for the first time he saw what was behind that sacred steel gate. He had jumped out, looked around and knew instantly he had entered a new world, a world he wanted to be a part of, his world,  his home away from  home.

A rock hit his truck, startling Julien back to today. He turned just in time to see the boys look at him, wide-eyed and wondering, weighing whether they should stay or make a run for it. He pulled over and motioned for them to come over. They did, reluctantly. He asked their names. Familiar names, home town names, paper mill names. He knew their fathers and grandfathers well.  He sent them on their way warning them to be careful with their aim.

After looking at the building for a while, the mill he had known like the back of his hand and had felt the beat of for so many years, he pulled away…slowly.

Julien enjoyed the breeze as he drove down the country road and made a sharp left turn. He stopped, looked at all the stones, some large, some small, different names on each. The grass had been freshly mowed. There was nothing like the smell of cut grass. It reminded him of Dad at home, whistling while he mowed, moving in and out in an exact pattern.

The large family stone with his name on it knew he would one day be here resting with these others who were a part of him. Its light granite color soothed him. He felt comfortable here. He found his father’s marker and touched it.  It felt smooth with a bit of roughness at the edges. Just like Dad, he thought.

He leaned in a bit closer and whispered, “Dad, you left just in time.”

Julien rubbed the marker one more time, touched his fingers to his lips, and smiled that his father could rest in peace, thinking that his paper town was still humming.

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