What If Ovens Drooled Mushrooms?

What if ovens,

When set to clean,

Drooled and oozed

A sight unseen?

And what if later

You came back to spy

On what came out

That was not very dry.

I smell something good!

Look, it’s a mouse!

No, it’s a mouse’s

Very own house!

Ten, little mushrooms

Standing in a row.

One on top of the other,

Standing, head to toe.

One, two, three,

Four, five six.

Seven, eight, nine,

Ten does the trick!

Now, what shall we do?

What will we say?

Mom never said, with

Mushrooms, we could play!

I’ll eat one

And you eat two!

I’ll put two more

Into my shoe!

That leaves five.

Will you eat one?

Then we’ll have four,

We’re almost done!

I don’t think this is

One of Mom’s wishes.

Four little mushrooms,

Without pretty dishes!

Here comes the cat!

She’ll eat a few!

Two are gone!

Now that leaves two!

I’ll put one in my pocket,

You can take the other.

But please, oh please

Don’t give it to your brother!

He’ll holler and scream

And cry like a baby!

Then we’ll have to figure out

How to make more, maybe!

Somehow or other,

This oven knows how

To make ten, standing mushrooms!

That’s truly, “WOW!!”

Let’s watch it again,

On some other day,

When we have no idea

What to do or to play!

When Mom cleans the oven

And leaves the house,

We can watch the oven drool

Mushroom houses for a mouse!

Precious Linda, c. 2014

I wrote this as an assignment for my online, Beginning Writer’s Workshop, taken through ed2go.com. We were to practice galumphing using three words as our prompt, randomly chosen from a pre-written list. I used the link to [Seuss-erific] Q & A – by Bonnie Neubauer, with sample, No. 60, from her book, Take Ten for Writers. You can see this, during the month of October 2014, at: http://www.creativity-portal.com/articles/bonnie-neubauer/take-ten/seuss-questions.html

I chose three numbers between 1 and 10, 7-6-3, and from the lists provided, I came up with the question to answer as: “What if… ovens… drooled… mushrooms?” I wrote this poem, with a few, small edits afterwards, galumphing with Dr. Seuss! 

Dream

Wisps of hair fluttered through the breeze, as Sheila turned the wheel of her new boat. The wave pattern behind her looked like inverted V’s and continued rippling larger toward the shoreline. Puffs of white were scattered like splattered paint across the deep, blue sky. Sheila was so grateful to be taking a holiday break of her own… a mini-retreat from her world of being a mom of three young kids and a weekend nurse in the ER. Life had become overwhelming for her, after her husband took his dream job of computer consulting which required much travel. She felt like a single mom, Monday through Friday, and then worked 12-hour night shifts during the busiest times in the ER on weekends, when he was usually home. When he wasn’t, she was grateful for the elderly couple or a babysitter who would watch her children when she had to work, since they were sleeping most of the time.

Now, she was glad that her parents were willing to take the kids for a week or a day, here and there. They were finally willing to get to know their grandchildren. How nice, after all these years of estrangement between her and them, since she left home and went out on her own.

Something flew into her eye and Sheila tried to wipe it out quickly. As she rubbed her eye, she realized, she was lying in bed and her parents were no longer around.  They had died a couple days ago and tears flooded her eyes.  

This was written during my Practice Writing group with a prompt of “daydream” for 10 minutes. I chose to write about “dream.”

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Two Hobos

“Hey, Ralph! Gotta smoke?”

Ralph reached into the back pocket of his tattered dungarees, while leaning close to the shed along the tracks. “Here!” he grunted, as he tossed a crinkled pack of Marlboros to Tony. “Watch where you smoke ‘em. We don’t want anyone seein' us before the Northern Pacific comes by to refill its water tank.”

“That ain’t ‘til after sundown and I’m bored,” Tony, ten years younger, complained.

“I’m tellin’ ya, Tony, if yer not careful, we won’t be gettin’ to Ma’s before she ‘kicks the bucket.’”

“Okay! Okay! It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be! Ridin' the rails would be fine, but hidin’ out or hikin' from town-to-town… well, I got a blister on two toes and these shoes ain’t holdin’ up neither!”

“Listen!” Ralph whispered sharply, after a twig snapped nearby. “Let’s scatter.”

“Hey, fellas! Whatcha doin’ around here! I haven’t seen ya in this here hollow. Where ya from?”

Tony looked at Ralph with his eyes and mouth wide open… waiting.

Ralph looked the sheriff straight in the eye. “We’re just movin’ through and takin’ a rest break in this here shade. Is there somethin' wrong with that?”

“No boys, but I’d say yer rest break is over. Now move on out or I’ll bring ya in for questioning.”

Ralph slung his pack over his shoulder, with his stick, hook, and cork bobber sticking out and picked up his blanket. Tony quickly stuffed the Marlboro’s in his pocket and grabbed his bag and homemade bow and the two began moving away, knowing that the Northern Pacific wouldn’t be carrying them closer to their destination that night.

I wrote this at my Practice Writing Group, with a prompt of “hobos” (or, “hoboes”) for 10 minutes, plus one or two additional minutes, and edited it slightly.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

The Empty Gallery

George and Pamela walked hand-in-hand, as they slowly meandered through the overgrown grass, in the field where they once shared picnics during their courting days. The sky was bright blue with no clouds in sight. The sun warmed their bodies, as they continued walking, as if they had all the time in the world.

Pamela had recently been diagnosed with lung cancer, stage 4, and they knew, this would probably be her last walk to the old farmstead and barn where she used to have a beautiful gallery of her wildlife paintings and scenes from the old barn and farmland. She especially loved painting the colorful wildflowers - Fringed Loosestrife, Smooth-stemmed Eveningstar and the Ten-petal Eveningstar, Sticky Jacob’s-ladder and Daisies - that seemed to pop up out of nowhere.

George had managed the farm, growing corn, wheat, potatoes, and asparagus where others had tried and failed. It had been a wonderful place to raise their five children, six dogs, three cats, and a rooster or two and chickens.

Pamela gripped George’s thin arm, as she began to trip and fall. Frail as he was, he caught her, smiled, and they embraced. Some things never changed between them, even though their bodies had grown old over the seventy years since they had met at a rural school in Montana when they were in the fifth grade.

As they approached the old barn, George lifted the rotting wooden bar and opened the door. The musty smell, the hay, the tools… were still there, as they had left them. They continued walking to the back of the barn, through a door to another room. Although the gallery was now empty, they looked around, as if Pamela’s paintings were still on display and smiled at each other.

George winked. “Pamela, you ‘shore’ was a great artist and you are still beautiful to me.”

They embraced again and held each other tightly, knowing this would be the last time.

I originally wrote this during our Practice Writing Group with the prompt of “empty gallery” in 14 minutes. I thought of wildflowers from my area: Columbine, Black-eyed Susan, Butter and Eggs, and Daisies and later looked up wildflowers from Montana to include in this writing.

Precious Linda, c.2013

The Piano Movers

Mandy was distraught. Her husband of forty-three years had died. She was struggling with being responsible for everything in her life.

She spent most days grieving, losing the love of her life.  Their marriage hadn’t always been great, but then, as he had worked through his post-traumatic stress disorder, it was as if the shackles holding him prisoner, after the war, had fallen away – one difficult piece, at a time, until that one day when he was finally free again to be the wonderful, amazing man he always wanted to be.

“Oh, John! I miss you so… your loving touch, your tender embrace, your ‘I can’t catch my breath hugs,’ our laughter; your funny jokes that weren't so funny, but we laughed anyway.” She sat there, as the clock ticked and the room became dark. She missed him so much.

“Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong!”

“Oh! The piano movers were coming at six to move the old piano out. They will be here, any moment!” She didn’t play the piano. Only John’s fingers could tickle the ivory and create such beautiful music.

“Oh, John! Why did you have to go so early?”

“Ding! Dong!” The piano movers were at the door and introduced themselves. Joe and Shane came in and covered the piano in a quilted blanket.

Joe noticed her eyes begin to glisten. “Are you sure you want to get rid of this piano? Perhaps, it would be good to wait a month or so.”

“No,” Mandy said. “It’s time. I got rid of his clothes and books, so it’s time to get rid of the piano, too.”

Shane added, “You can always call and ask for it back, if you change your mind.”

“And if no one has bought it,” Joe added.

Joe and Shane rolled the beautiful piano up onto the truck.

Joe said, “Please call, if you change your mind.”

Mandy walked back inside and saw the empty wall. She collapsed in tears.

Five minutes later, she called the truck drivers. “Could you please bring it back? I’m not ready yet.”

Joe said, “Sure!”

They drove back into her driveway and set up the piano right where it had been… as if it had never been moved.

“What do I owe you?" Mandy asked.

Joe smile. “Nothing, Ma’am. There’s no charge.”

“Really?” Mandy replied, surprised.

Joe and Shane just smiled. “No charge! Enjoy your piano and your cherished memories.”

“Thank you,” Mandy whispered, with a tinge of a smile.

This was written during my Practice Writing Group, with a prompt of: piano movers, for 10+ minutes and edited slightly.

Although this is a piece of fiction, it was based on a true incident described in Twenty-Eight Snow Angels: A Widow's Story of Love, Loss and  Renewal by Diane Dettmann, Outskirts Press, c. 2011.

Precious Linda, 2013

The Stone Arch Bridge

The gray sky rumbled, as my feet squished through the muddy trail and seeped over my ankles to color my socks black-speckled brown. Joan turned aside, as the wind flapped her windbreaker, while trying to avoid the stinging pellets of the March rain. We were heading to the stone arch, a quarter mile away to get out of the bitter-cold rain.

“A great day for photography!” she shouted through the wind.

“Yeah! I wish I’d brought my umbrella to keep my camera dry!” I replied.

“I don’t know if I could use my camera. My fingers are so cold.”

”Well, let’s see what we can take pictures of while standing under the arch!”

We began to quicken our paces. My toes were already numb from cold. I needed to do something to stay warm. Joan reached the arch, seconds behind me and we laughed. We looked like a couple of wet rags hanging out to dry on a rainy day!

As our eyes began to adjust to the shadowy areas under the arch, we each began to gasp and exclaim!

“Hey! Look at this moss growing on this colorful rock!”

“Look how the colors stand out when the rocks are wet!”

“Here’s a place where the water is trickling down.”

“Hey! I found it! It landed in my eye!”

We smiled. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year-and-a-half. It was so wonderful to spend part of the day together again, like we used to do back in high school.

We were two peas in a pod, then, and we were still now. We smiled on that rainy day in March, knowing we had treasures to share, under the stone arch bridge.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

This was written during our Practice Writing Group with the prompt of: stone arch, for 11 minutes.

onomatopoeia*

*We had fun at my Practice Writing Group with the prompt of onomatopoeia, which was a new word to most of us. It means: “The naming of a thing or action by a vocal imitation of the sound associated with it (as buzz, hiss)” – from merriam-webster.com. We wrote for 10 minutes. I tried using more than one form of onomatopoeia in each sentence. Can you identify these words?

Boing! The ball dribbled crazily along the floor.

Crash!! The shattered pieces of crystal lie dazzling in the sunlight.

Rip! The feedbag fractured at the seams spilling bouncing beans hurriedly scattering on the floor.

The mice scuttled and scurried to pounce on a mouth-watering tasty morsel.

Thud! The whole house shook when a car crashed and ricocheted off the front entryway, leaving falling bricks and shattering shards of glass for the homeowners to find.

Swoosh! Swoosh! The breeze fluttered past the delicate, sheer curtains.

“Rustle! Rustle! Crack! Crush!” went the leaves, as the children shuffled through their piles, leaving them in tiny pieces.

“Vroom!! I awakened to Mama vacuuming and Billy running through the house being the engine for his paper airplane! “Vroom! Vroom!”

“Pop!” The can exploded, as fizzy bubbles oozed out of the silent, cracked container.

Linda

Giraffes and People Eat at the Same Hotel!

I recently heard of a giraffe hotel or manor where guests can eat with the giraffes, while seated at a beautifully-set table. I’m not kidding!

A couple giraffes stop by and stick their long necks through two, open windows and join the guests who are seated at the same table. The giraffes eat from two place settings on one side of the table that they can reach through the open windows.

My husband knows that I like giraffes and sent me the link. I immediately thought, “I’d like to go there!” until I realized it was in another country, on another continent… in Africa, in fact.

Oh well, it was fun to see the pictures and realize that this establishment was created to maintain and preserve a particular type of giraffe from becoming extinct. In fact, a new baby giraffe was born just this month.

Apparently, the man who knows each giraffe by name and is known as a “giraffe whisperer,” much like Monty Roberts, “the horse whisperer,” is also the hotel chef.

All in all, it sounds like a wonderful idea and something fun and novel, at the same time. If I’m ever in the area, I would definitely love to go there and share a meal with the giraffes.

Written during my Practice Writing Group. The word chosen was camel and I chose to write about giraffes, for seven minutes.

See also the link to the article with pictures about these giraffes: http://www.grindtv.com/outdoor/nature/post/giraffes-join-guests-for-breakfast-and-dinner-at-iconic-giraffe-manor/

Goody Two-Shoes

"GoodyTwo-Shoes, do what you need to do so you won't get in trouble with your parents…get good grades, be nice, don't wear dirty clothes or clothes with spots or tears in them!" That's what I grew up with… seeking perfection. Oh, if only it were possible. I never quite made it. Something was always wrong when it came to the parents, with one of us kids. Now, I seem to be the black sheep in the family, for something I did over three decades ago.

I'm just beginning to think that perfection is overrated. Sure, it's important to have a car that runs well and doesn't break down on you every other day. It's great to have an oven that works and gas or water pipes that don't leak, but when it comes to people, well, we can do our best but it will always be a far cry from perfect when compared to someone who can cook, sew, teach, paint, drive, write, sing, invent, perform surgery, etc. better than you.

I'm beginning to think perfection is some sort of false image or false hope that really isn't worth aiming for.

If there are no two snowflakes alike and if there are no two people alike and if handmade items are unique… then who wants to be a perfect replica of anything or anyone else?

I'm tired of trying to be perfect! How about you?

Let's join the non-perfects and just be ourselves… unusual, different, unique… sometimes bland and boring, sometimes, extremely fun, invigorating, and always unusually different! Maybe you're already there!

I wonder what it's like living comfortably in a non-perfect world with non-perfect people and away from the constant barrage of negative comments of those who think they're perfect and you aren’t. I hope to find out.

Precious Linda, c. 2012-2013

Originally written during my Practice Writing Group with the random word of: perfection, for 10 minutes.

The Motorcycle Rider (Previously: Motorcycle)

Joe's red bandana kept some of his long, blond hair from blowing in his face, as the breeze went by. His unshaven face matched his wrinkled, tattered t-shirt worn inside out with the sleeves cut off. The muscles of his arms were well-developed and his bronze skin reflected hours spent in the sun. His bony knees showed through his worn and faded jeans with grease and dirt swiped on the areas of his thighs. His boots were well-used with evidence of cow pies stuck on the soles and sides.

Joe’s mind raced, as did his pulse. He was fuming inside, wishing there were some other way. He revved the engine of his motorcycle and headed for the setting sun. He would never go back home… ever.

Precious Linda, c. 2012

Note: This was written during my Practice Writing Group with a randomly chosen word of: motorcycle, for 10 minutes.