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

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 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.

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.

Mrs. Claus

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” and “Hee! Hee! Hee!”

Santa couldn't find his Viking’s jersey

The one for a boy named, Tommy LeRoy

Who thought it was better than a brand new toy.

He knew who to ask, when he was stumped;

His beautiful wife was such a trump!

Mrs. Claus was always jovial like he

And graced his presence with cookies and glee.

Yes, the two were certainly quite a pair

Living on cookies and delightful sweets to share.

They weren't too fond of venison, you know,

‘Cause Rudolph and the others would take that as a blow.

Mrs. Claus met Santa on his very first ride,

Trying out his new sleigh when it crashed into the side

Of a tree and a snow bank, causing Mrs. Claus to fall

Head over heels, looking like a snow ball.

Santa jumped quickly to save this young thing,

Thinking she was beautiful enough to sing:

“Oh, what a delight to my eyes you appear!

Will you marry me and become my Sweetheart, you dear?”

Mrs. Claus was shaken and quite a bit surprised.

Wiping snow from her face, she peered through her eyes.    

With surprise and delight and some mischief and fun,

She nodded to him and they became one.

A team of love to share with others, far and near,

On Christmas Day and every day, throughout the year.

If you travel up north, you will certainly find

Two of the most delightful people, of any kind.

Precious Linda, c. 2013

Note: This was written at my Practice Writing Group, with a randomly chosen prompt of “Mrs. Claus” for 10 minutes.