Author: Sally

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The Giant’s Nose

Sally14 Comments

“See the nose?” Michael said, pointing at the distant pointed mountain.

Brodie nodded.

“Remember the rhyme?” Michael asked.

Brodie shook his head.

Michael crossed his arms, all know-it-all like, and recited,”‘If anyone goes, in the giant’s nose, he’ll decompose.’ That means he’ll rot. We don’t want to go there.”

Brodie’s eyes were big and somber. He pointed at the two small mountains, and held up his hands in a questioning way.

“Those are the Frog’s Eyes,” Michael told Brodie. “There’s a rhyme about them, too — ‘The Frog’s Eyes hide a prize. A good disguise is advised.’ Did you bring a disguise?”

Brodie held open his rucksack and showed him some bandanas and hats.

“They’ll have to do,” Michael said, and shrugged. “Okay, now first — ‘Follow the path around the lake; whatever you do, don’t make a mistake.'”

Michael led the way, his eyes down, focusing on keeping to the wide trail. Brodie lagged behind, looking at the mountains that were growing closer. Unfortunately, the Giant’s Nose was looming nearer, while the Frog’s Eyes were not.

Finally, Brodie ran and tugged Michael’s sleeve. He pointed at the Giant’s Nose. He pointed at the Frog’s Eyes. He pointed at the trail and drew a line with his hand indicating that the trail was leading to the wrong mountain.

Michael frowned. “Did we make a mistake? We followed the path!”

Brodie pointed to a boulder ahead. These words were etched into it:

“Beware following words that rhyme.
They are wrong half the time.”

This post brought to you by the Unicorn Challenge. The rules are simple:

Use the photo
250 words max
More than that
Get the ax

Life

The Water Softener

Sally4 Comments

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “last thing that broke/you had to fix.” Think about the word that best describes the last thing that stopped working for you and use that word any way you’d like. Enjoy!

Linda G. Hill, The Friday Reminder and Prompt for #SoCS Oct. 14, 2023

One of my children mentioned that the water smelled: sulfur-y, iron-y, not good. “Have you been adding salt to the water softener?” he asked.

I had, but the last time I had added salt, I was surprised to see salt still in the tank. “I’m not sure it’s working,” I said, and went down to our damp, dirt-floor basement to check.

Verdict: the water softener is not working.

The water softening system has always been a bit of a mystery to me. I don’t understand how it works. I dump salt in. It disappears, but I don’t hear anything that tells me something is kicking on and actually doing something.

Like the furnace, which did kick on this week as the temperatures dropped.

Everyone that walked through the door where I worked commented on the cold weather like it was a surprise. Seriously, this happens every year. Every. Single. Year. It’s hot in the summer, cold in the winter. This is not something new.

But I digress — the plague of Stream-of-Consciousness writing.

Water softener. I have no idea how old the system is, but it has worked its magic for many years.

I poked around at the mysterious water softener. Cobwebs. Corrosion. Dirt. They were all present. Probably not good for it. Tank with water and salt.

To be honest, I avoid the basement. It’s creepy.

I open the door once a year to let the furnace guy down to service the furnace — an appliance that makes far more sense to me. I go down periodically with bags of salt for the water softener. That’s about it.

One time I heard a noise in the basement and there were woodchucks. Seriously.

I can clean the dirt and the cobwebs, but the corrosion looks pretty unpromising. I think I need a whole new system.

Of course, I have to make a metaphor out this and ask the question(s) — where in my life do I have dirt and cobwebs that need to be cleaned? and, where is there so much corrosion that I just need to start new?

Blather · Life

When I Grow Up (a blathery post)

Sally8 Comments

Truth: I am 63. In the prime of my life, right?

I think most people my age are not doing what I do almost daily which is to ponder the question, what do I want to be when I grow up?

For crying out loud, I AM grown up! I have grown-up children. I have grandchildren marching towards grown-upness. (Well, at least marching towards double-digits, which is just a hop-skip-and -jump away from teenager years which are pretty darn close to being grown-up.)

Most of my peers are pondering how to spend the retirement years. I struggle to relate.

I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I moved from part-time to full-time two years ago. The last full time job I held before that was 1984.

I took a whole bunch of years off to bake cookies and have teas, as Hilary Clinton once said. Except I didn’t have teas. I played with Lego, read aloud, changed diapers, did laundry, read aloud some more, and went for walks to the library. We went for family swims, had skunk watches (just what it sounds like — watching a skunk make a daily trek outside our sliding door), played with math manipulatives, raked leaves, painted Christmas cookies, colored Easter eggs, hid birthday presents, etc. etc. etc.

Now, at work, I struggle with having a boss. I struggle with the politics of the work-place, with the certain amount of fakeness that is expected required, and I just can’t do it.

I love planning things. I love when an idea comes to fruition. That happened with events twice this week.

I hate any sort of spotlight.

I love listening to people. I love stories. I love making people feel welcome. I now know how to say “Good morning” in at least 6 languages — which I really do use to greet people. The Russian lady, especially, always smiles and laughs when I do. Sometimes the “r” rolls in dubro utro and sometimes my tongue gets stuck. Either way, we both laugh about it.

I hate pettiness. I hate micromanaging. These aspects of my job come from on high and drive me crazy. I want to scream,”Just let me do my job!”

Sometimes I think back to my horse riding days. Some horses needed a tight rein, but most were much happier and cooperative with a little slack. I rode bareback most of time, and could feel the horse, which is kind of strange to explain to someone who has never experienced it. Horses and I got along well.

I LOVE having a counterweight to my idea-ness. I have such a person in my life right now who can see the potential in my ideas and can either point out the flaws or move them forward. Idea people need that someone else. They don’t micromanage; they work alongside.

All this is to get to the concept of Ikigai which I stumbled upon yesterday in my struggle to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I found a Venn diagram — and I love Venn diagrams — that illustrated it:

The more I read, though, about Ikigai — defined by Wikipedia as “a Japanese concept referring to something that gives a person a sense of purpose, a reason for living.” — I realized that this is one of those foreign words that doesn’t translate well. Even the Venn diagram — and I DO love Venn diagrams — sort of makes it formulaic, and it isn’t.

So — prime of life or not, I’ll still ponder what to be when I grow up. Maybe someday I’ll figure it.

But can someone just get rid of these darn micromanagers??!

This way-too-wordy post is brought to you by Linda Hill’s Stream of Conscious Saturday prompt: prime

fiction

The Gun

Sally24 Comments

“Is not!”

“Is, too!”

“No way your grandfather is an alien hunter!” Johnny hissed, his face close to Kevin’s.

“IS, TOO!” Kevin shouted.

The boys stared at each other, then Kevin said, “”I can prove it.”

“How?” scoffed Johnny. “You gonna show me a dead alien.”

“No, even better,” said Kevin, “I can show you his chuffleuffle gun.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” said Johnny. “There’s no such thing as a scuffleumple gun.”

“Yeah — because it’s a chuffle–uffle gun,” Kevin replied. “You don’t even know the right name for it.”

“Fine,” said Johnny. “Show me the gun.” He wasn’t going to attempt that ridiculous name again.

The two boys went to Kevin’s grandfather’s room. They could hear grandfather singing in the kitchen, so they knew it was safe to go in his room. Kevin pointed at the short bell-nosed gun leaning in the corner.

“See?!” He whispered triumphantly.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “It’s just an old gun.”

“No! It’s a chuffleuffle gun. That’s the noise it makes when he shoots it. AND, he only uses it to shoot chuffles.”

Johnny snorted. “What’s a chuffle? An alien?”

“YES!” said Kevin. “From the planet Chuff!”

Grandfather was still singing away, so Kevin took a step closer. “See, here’s grandfather’s hunting hat and glasses. The chuffleuffle gun can hurt your eyes, but it wouldn’t hurt you if I shot you with it. It only hurts chuffles.”

Johnny looked skeptical.

“I’ll show you,” said Kevin, and he reached for the gun.

This partial story brought to you by The Unicorn Challenge.

That darn 250 word is going to be the death of me.

Not a chuffleuffle gun, though, because I’m not a chuffle.

About My Dad · Blather

A Ramble about Ice Cream and Little League

Sally10 Comments

About 15 miles from where we used to live was a seasonal ice cream shop called Humdinger. In March, when we would see the “Opening Soon” sign go up, we waited with eager anticipation.

I suppose every area has their own hidden gem ice cream store. Humdinger was Binghamton’s.

Blue Cow in Roanoke, Virginia is another such treasure.

Honestly, I don’t know if Cooperstown has one anymore. I would have said Pop’s Place but they closed. When I was a kid, Cooper Cabin had the best ice cream. They are long since closed.

My father would take his Little League team there after a winning game. The Cooperstown Dry Cleaners — the name of his team because they were sponsored by, well, I’ll let you guess — was not the winningest team, so it was quite a treat to go there. My father believed in every player playing, regardless of skill level and whether we were winning or losing the game.

I say “we” because I was a part of the team. I begged to play but there were two issues. One — I threw like a girl, a fact I was reminded of regularly when I tried to play catch. Two — girls had NOT broken into Cooperstown Little League at that point.

I remember reading about a girl my age in Pennsylvania who was allowed to play, but when she took the position of catcher, other coaches insisted that she wear a “cup” because it was in the rules that catchers had to wear cups to protect themselves. She pinned a toy teacup onto her uniform. I bet she didn’t throw like a girl. Catchers have to have a pretty good arm.

But I digress. I was part of the team because I learned to keep score and my father had me be his official scorekeeper. I learned the numbers for the positions. I tallied the strikes and balls in the little boxes. I knew to write 6-3 if the shortstop threw the ball to the first baseman to get the batter out. I checked with my dad on errors, because, God forbid I should make that all-important determination. At the Little League level.

The occasional ice cream at Cooper Cabin was my reward. That, and spending time with my father.

Yesterday was the anniversary of his passing.

I should have had an ice cream in his honor. His favorite was vanilla, same as mine.

The ramble is brought to you by Stream of Consciousness Saturday. The prompt was “hum” – Find a word that starts with “hum” or use the word “hum” itself. 

All I could think about was Humdinger Ice Cream — but I meandered.

fiction

The Race

Sally23 Comments

Oh, you take the high road
And I’ll take the low road…

They both studied the map. Iain watched Josh trace a route that looked longer than long. It took him north first, then southeast along the railroad tracks — tracks that took him so far south so that he had to ride north again. Why he didn’t follow the trail that seemed direct?

But it was a race.

Iain zoomed down the trail until he got to the livestock chute with the curved fencing. He was so bent on beating Josh that he hadn’t really paid attention until his ATV got stuck in that metal curve.

“STOP. LOOK. LISTEN.” He read angrily. “NOW you tell me!”

Then, he heard it. The train. Josh was on those tracks. He was a goner.

Iain heard the train blow an urgent whistle.

Suddenly his stuck ATV meant nothing. “Please, God,” he whispered, “let Josh be safe.”

His heart pounded as he heard the speeding train approach. Its whistle grew louder and more insistent. He squeezed the cold metal rail of the livestock chute.

He didn’t want to look.

In fact, he averted his eyes as the train roared past. He rested his head on the fence, holding back the tears.

Then he heard the low buzz of an ATV engine. He looked up to see Iain riding by on the tracks, AFTER the train, laughing and waving.

My response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge: write a story based on the photograph, no more than 250 words.

Life

Bookmark Appreciation

Sally16 Comments

I will not dog-ear a page.

Instead, I use one of these:

* A random scrap of paper

* A love note from one of my
children that says, “I
love you, Mom” or “I know that
I can always go to you.”

* A piece of pretty cardstock

* Bookstore ad — “Book No Further”

* Used envelope sans the mail

* Cross-stitched cats on hardanger

* Index card scribbled with notes
And quotes from the book it’s in

* A tucked-in book jacket flap

* A grocery store receipt

* Slip from an online bookstore
that says “Thank you for your order!”

* A printed prayer, * a ribbon

* A postcard, * an old letter

* Class handout folded in half

* Tattered newspaper clippings

* Business card from an artist
That I met at a craft show

* Page from a day calendar –
2002 Far Side cows

* An unused tissue because
A used one would be quite gross

* A decades old photograph
of my kids in a leaf pile

* A Reeses candy wrapper

You have to admit there is
always something close at hand
to neatly keep your place for
when you return to reading

Many apologies. I’m not feeling terribly creative :/

However, the W3 prompt this week was to write an ode to an everyday object. This may not be an ode, but I do appreciate all the little items that rise to the challenge of holding my place in a book.

Blather · Grief · Leaning In · Life · poetry

Mom’s Wedding Dress

Sally18 Comments

Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.

Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.

The W3 prompt this week was a quote:

Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.

I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.

On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.

I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.

The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.

“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.

But I couldn’t.

Kudos to those of you who can or could.

It’s just beyond me.

I closed the box.

But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.

That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.

She always loved a garden.

Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.

But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.

My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom

My mother gave her wedding dress
To me so I
Could use the lace for my gown.
I frown, I sigh

As I find the remains of that
Dress so many
Years later. A wreck of a thing –
Fitting, any

Joy I might have had now replaced
With a heartache.
The box holds scraps of what once was –
I pause – head-shake —

What do I do? “Throw it away,”
Says one voice in
My mind. “It’s just garbage now.”
Somehow the bin

Is not the proper place for it.
It is a wreck –
Like my life – but I simply will
Not kill that speck

Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection?
It is a dress!
Nothing more and yet so much more –
But for my yes

My own promise — oh, how I grieve!
I will bury
The scraps. My heart is still not free
To be merry