Category: Writing

Writing

Intentional Walk

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Once upon a time I did a whole bunch of research on my hometown, Cooperstown, which is also the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Tourists come here in droves in the summer for baseball stuff — but the village is so much more than baseball.

Years ago, when I was taking care of my father, the home health aide came and shoo me out of the house. “Go do something for yourself,” she would say.

So I would go to the research library. I mean, isn’t that where everyone would want to go?

I researched the town, the old homes, the founders, etc. I made up a walking tour of the village and walked it a gazillion times with one of my daughter. She knew the tour better than I did, I think.

Then I was talking with one of my sons and asked what he would call a non-baseball tour of Cooperstown. He thought about it, and then said, “An Intentional Walk.”

I loved it.

(For those who don’t know, an intentional walk IS a baseball term for when the pitcher decides to throw four balls and intentionally walk the batter because he would rather face the next guy in the line-up. These days, the pitcher doesn’t even have to throw the four balls. They can just declare it. Where’s the fun in that?)

But life happened.

My father died.

We had a pandemic.

I took a full-time job.

The Intentional Walk fell by the wayside. Maybe I should resurrect it.

James Fenimore Cooper, part of the tour. This photo shows him avoiding the pandemic.

This post is brought to you by the JusJoJan prompt: Intentional

Writing

Bear Arms

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Philomena Cunk’s thoughts are always priceless:

@bbc

Good point… are they legs or arms? 🐻 #CunkOnEarth #BBCiPlayer #Comedy #PhilomenaCunk

♬ original sound – BBC

The whole bear vs bare debacle (leaving the arms out) is further complicated by Fuzzy Wuzzy.

You remember the poem, right?

Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy
Was he?

Clearly Fuzzy Wuzzy was bare. A bare bear.

But did he have arms?

This bit of nonsense is brought to you by the JusJoJan prompt: arms.

Writing

Fast/Slow

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I fell asleep last night thinking about the word “fast” because I had seen that fast/slow was the Stream of Consciousness prompt for today. I know, I know – maybe pondering the words at bedtime makes it less true stream-of-consciousness but whatever.

Fast is such a funny word. We use it to describe abstaining from eating. That seems like the opposite of fast. No eating equals fast. Slow eating means enjoying a meal. Go figure.

Then I woke up this morning and saw the news. We’ve attacked Venezuela and captured their president. Well, that happened fast.

And it’s scary.

So I sent an email to my congressman and both senators at 5:30 AM.

Supposedly, Maduro has ties to drug cartels.

But didn’t Trump pardon a convicted drug trafficker who had been the president of Honduras?

He is inconsistent at best.

And waaaaay too impulsive.

Where are the checks and balances?

It’s moving too fast. Someone needs to slow him down.

I think I’ll fast today.

And pray.

Writing

Tidal Pools

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I read this quote this morning while looking for something to write about “magnify” — the JusJoJan prompt for the day:

If you stare at suds, you’ll go crazy. But in soap suds, you’ll find bubble cubes and many other forms. I just take those things, magnify them and sometimes blow smoke inside it so you can see it better.
~~Tom Noddy

Who is Tom Noddy, you ask? According to Wikipedia, “Tom Noddy is the stage name of Tom McAllister, an American entertainer whose television performances of “Bubble Magic” with soap bubbles in the early 1980s led to a book deal and “Bubble Festivals” at science centers across America. He is the originator of a large number of bubble magic tricks now performed by entertainers around the world.“

He found something that fascinated him and he looked at it every which way. It’s funny because just the other day, I had said to someone that I didn’t need to travel the world for a vacation. I could spend a whole day or week even staring at one tidal pool.

Which I did one day in August at the Bay of Fundy.

How could I not love watching that?

Writing

Mindfulness Monday

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Every Monday, a group of people gather at Connections for “Mindfulness Monday.”

What’s Connections, you ask? Connections is the part of my job I love most. It’s a program for people who are actively aging well, a.k.a. seniors.

Let me take a step back to explain. I work at a gym-sports facility-community center. It’s hard to define what it is. It includes

  • a “gym” with cardio equipment, weight machines, free weights, etc.
  • 4 studios for classes such as yoga, zumba, fitness, and cycling
  • a gym floor, where people play basketball, futsal, volleyball, pickleball (in the winter), and more
  • an indoor track
  • three swimming pools: an 8 lane 25-yd lap pool, a diving well, and a warm shallow pool that we use for teaching lessons and share with physical therapy where they do aqua-therapy
  • an 8 lane bowling alley
  • a golf simulator
  • a high climbing wall
  • racquetball and squash courts
  • 2 ping-pong tables
  • meeting rooms that can be used by community groups
  • Outside tennis courts, soccer fields, a little league field, and a high ropes course.

Also, in the building the local medical center has their out-patient physical therapy department so they can share the gym equipment and the pools.

This facility now hosts Connections, a senior program, and I get to be involved.

Two days a week Connections offers studio fitness classes, aqua classes, Tai Chi, games such pitch, cribbage, and Mah Jongg, lunch, community talks, two different supports groups (grief and Alzheimer’s), book groups, and Mindfulness.

Yes, at Connections, we have Mindfulness Monday.

Like many of the programs that have grown in Connections, it’s because a few people asked about trying it and someone volunteered to lead.

The mindfulness group, however, has taken root and grown. They expanded from 45 minutes to an hour to an hour and a half. They wanted time just to talk. They encourage each other.

Honestly, I’m not a 100% sure what they do during the mindfulness time, but I know they have readings and a singing bowl.

I apologize. This is so much more than a Just-Jot-It (JusJoJan) which I’m going to attempt to do for January (a blog challenge sponsored by Linda Hill), but today’s word was “mindfulness.”

Mindfulness Monday makes me happy and I don’t even go to it. Seeing people come together and find commonality not based in anger is nice. Really nice.

Writing

Keep Moving

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I used to think that I liked books that wrap the story in a neat little bundle. The plot was tight and complete.

I realize now that the gut-punch stories are the ones that stick with me:

  • The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings — my father gave me this book for Christmas when I was in 7th grade. I looked at the thickness of the book and thought, No way. Then I read it. And loved it. I cried and cried. How can I love something that makes me cry — but I do.
  • The Big Sky by A.B. Guthrie — I still get a knot in my stomach when I think about it. “It’s all sp’iled…” The fact that I still remember that line and can picture the scene speaks to the power of the book.
  • A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean — Is it the nature and the water that make this comforting, and cause it to stick with me? Or is it the family conflict? Or is it the beauty and messiness of life all rolled into one.

This morning, I read that Dick van Dyke, who recently turned 100, had written a memoir called, “Keep Moving.” I think that IS the plot for life.

The neat tight plot isn’t real. Sad things occur. Mistakes are made. People disappoint.

And yet, the world is still a beautiful place.

My goal/theme for 2026 will be “Keep Moving.”

It’s going to be a great year.

This is my submission for Stream of Consciousness Saturday (SoCS). This week’s word was “plot.“

Life · Writing

Decision Making

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My youngest daughter is faced with a challenging decision. She and her current roommate are moving into a new apartment. It’s two bedroom, two bath, but one of the bedrooms has a bath attached while the other bedroom would use the common bathroom.

“The one with the private bath is clearly the better one,” she told me. “How do we choose who gets it?”

Draw straws? Flip a coin?

One of her sisters suggested they each bid on the room. How much more would they be willing to pay for the room with the private bath? Later, though, she said that would kill their friendship. Both girls would feel resentful — one for the privacy, the other for the money.

I asked dilemma-daughter again the other day. “Did you figure it out?”

“No,” she said sadly. “This is so hard!”

And yet I think we both know that if this is the hardest decision she has to make in her life, her life will have been pretty easy.

It’s less about making the right decision, and more about being able to sit with whatever decision is made. She will have another hard decision next week, next month, next year. Another opportunity to move on and not second-guess.

I think that’s called living.

This is my post for Stream of Consciousness Saturday, where the prompt was “Straw.”

It’s been a while since I’ve participated in this weekly prompt, but I’m trying to get those creative juices flowing again.

fiction · Writing

Skeecher

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“Mom! I can’t find Skeecher!” Jeremy yelled.

Mom turned from the sink. This was the third time this week that Skeecher, a strange statue that Jeremy had unearthed in the garden, had gone missing.

Last week when she had sent Jeremy out to pick rocks from the newly-tilled soil of the garden, he moaned about the work like any normal 10-year-old. But when he came running in holding this dirt-covered statue of pot-bellied humanoid, he was anything but annoyed. He was delighted. Why Jeremy named it Skeecher was as much a mystery as the thing’s origins.

“Did you look on your dresser?” It sounded like an obvious place, but that’s where Skeecher was yesterday when they went to look.

“No! I looked there. AND the window sill. AND the closet,” Jeremy said, listing off Skeeter’s previous hiding places.

“I’ll help you find him” she said, drying her hands and heading down the hall. She opened the door to Jeremy’s room, and there was Skeecher standing in the middle of the floor.

“Is this a joke?” she asked.

Jeremy didn’t say anthing. He just scooped up the figure and hugged it.

The next day, while Jeremy was at his friend’s house, Mom heard noises in Jeremy’s room as she passed. She opened the door to see 6-foot tall Skeecher leap onto the desk and shrink to his normal size.

She ran in and grabbed the statue. His body still felt supple. His eyes blinked open and met hers.

This is my contribution to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s a challenge with only two rules: 1) no more than 250 words, and 2) inspired by the photo.

I know, I know — I’ve been MIA, but the creative tank has been low. Life.

And I realize this is an incomplete story. Again – life.

Don’t you think life is just one big incomplete story?

A to Z Blogging Challenge · Writing

I is for Imagination

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If you want to know what loving your neighbor is all about, look at them with more than just your eyes.

Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark

I recently started a writer’s group at the senior program where I work.

We’ve had two meetings, but only one person — the same person — has come each time. The last time we met I was feeling so overwhelmed with life that we hardly talked about writing until at the end when we were talking about all that’s going on these days. Something clicked in my brain.

“This,” I said, making a grandiose gesture with my arms to indicate the world in which we live, “is why writing is important. Writing helps us understand.”

It was at just such a time as this that I started this blog, although it wasn’t the country in turmoil. It was my mother’s dementia. I was having a hard time processing it.

Just like I’m having a hard time processing what’s going on today.

Writing taps into something — surely there is a word for it — that unravels the knot.

I think it has to do with imagination — with seeing with more than our eyes.

fiction · Writing

Mr. Barleigh

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Mr. Barleigh kept the floors clean at the primary school. He swept. He mopped. He picked up trash.

Mr. Barleigh moved at one pace. It wasn’t slow, really. It wasn’t fast, certainly. It was an amble.

Mr. Barleigh was tall and thin. He had minimal hair, peppery-grayish. His uniform shirt was loose, as were his pants, but his suspenders kept everything in order. He had suspenders in a variety of colors and patterns. The children were always interested to see which suspenders he had on.

Mr. Barleigh knew every student’s name and greeted them by name every day.

Mr. Barleigh carved turtles out of little bits of wood and he gave one to each student. “We can learn a lot from turtles,” he would say, “but the two most important things are ‘Move at your own pace’ and ‘Be comfortable in your own shell.'”

Mr. Barleigh smiled when one of the 2nd grade teachers used his turtle sayings for a bulletin board. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but there’s so much wisdom in those words!”

Mr. Barleigh always ate his lunch in the cafeteria, sitting with a different group of children every day.

One day, Mr. Barleigh didn’t come to work. Teachers and students alike were concerned. The police officer who went to his house found that he had died in his sleep. He also found that every bit of wallspace in his house was covered with school photos and drawings from children.

This is my submission to the Unicorn Challenge. The rules for the challenge are simple — no more than 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.