Author: Sally

Blather

Saturday Blather that dips into controversy

Sally12 Comments

In case anyone wonders, I took down the Dormasha I had written for the W3 prompt. Even though it was based on a front desk conversation, it was too dark. I often process hard things through writing, but I’m learning that I don’t necessarily need to share them here 🙂

The truth is that most of the material I get for any of my writing is from front desk conversations. I have met some of the most interesting people just through the slow building of relationship by daily greeting people and asking how they’re doing.

Yesterday, a young man who comes to swim, and who has been telling me bits of tidbits about his family and job, leaned on the counter and asked me if I had read the news about where he works. I had not. So he told me why his place of employment had made the front pages.

I told him that I often avoid the news. “Depending on what news source I go to, I feel like I’m in two totally different countries,” I said.

“It’s the politics of teams,” he replied. “Politicians used to be the people who could work out compromises, but now it’s sport. It’s the Yankees vs the Red Sox.”

He couldn’t have picked a better rivalry. The Yankees and Red Sox have spent the better part of a century vilifying each other.

“We don’t look for common ground anymore,” he continued. “Take gun control…” and my mind immediately wandered off to Wyoming.

Honestly, I don’t remember what he said next. I had lived for a time in Wyoming, though, and people there take their gun rights pretty seriously.

I thought about them. I thought about the time we house-sat for a guy who had a ranch, and he had told us about the gun in the hall closet, in case … I don’t remember … coyotes? He failed to tell us, however, about the arsenal in the spare room, or the loaded handgun in the nightstand of the room we had put our young son to sleep in — thank God, I checked that drawer!

In upstate New York, the gun owners that I know are responsible and safe. Primarily, they hunt deer.

I don’t personally own a gun or want to own a gun — and I actually don’t want to enter the whole debate.

After talking with the guy who brought it up — and he had headed off for the pool — one of the custodial staff walked by. I knew he was really big into gun rights with tattoos that bear witness to his strong beliefs.

“How do you feel about background checks?” I asked him, and was surprised to hear that he really wasn’t that far off from the other man. And he was very knowledgeable and well-spoken on the topic.

Can I just stop here and say — this is why stream-of-consciousness writing produces blather in me. I write myself into a hole. I wanted to tell you that I get my material for posts from conversations I have — and now I’ve just stepped into controversy — but I’m going to leave it here because Stream of Consciousness.

Here’s some safer blather — three times a week, this little guy comes in wearing a backpack that’s bigger than his torso. He was chattering up a storm yesterday about school.

“How old is he?” I asked the mom.

“He’ll be three in a few weeks,” she said. “He’s very excited about school because he watches his brother get on the bus every day.”

It made me smile.

I think I’ll just leave you with that.

poetry

Here Comes the Sun

Sally11 Comments

Sometimes
the best part
of a cloudy day
is when
the
sun
peeks through

and

Sometimes
the best part
of a sunny day
is when
the
clouds
pass by

The W3 prompt this week (from Leslie Scoble) is:

  • Compose a free verse poem of any length 
  • Thematic: The theme for this poem should be ~ “the SUN”

Uncategorized

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.