family · Life

Life Choices

“There’s an awful lot of sighing going on over there,” said my pew-mate at church yesterday.

She was right.

I carry my cares in my shoulders and my breathing. Multiple times during the worship service I had realized my shoulders were tight and that I was holding my breath. I would force my shoulders down in faux-relaxation and exhale slowly. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed.

We talked for a few minutes afterwards and her words were so helpful. To have the right person with the right words show up at the right moment is truly a gift.

Then I made a great life choice — carve pumpkins with my granddaughter.

Sometimes a life choice is something big — where to go to college, who to spend my life with, where to settle down and live.

More often it’s something small — what do I do this month, this week, this day, this moment.

Carving pumpkins, eating roasted pumpkins — sometimes that is the very best life choice.

Blather · poetry

The Broon Coo (and other cow blather)

Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: “oo.” Find a word with “oo” in it or just use “oo” because why not?


When my granddaughter was littler (she’s now a big 4 years old), I wasn’t working full-time and would go babysit once a week. So. Much. Fun.

Anyhoo — she was just a wee little thing, and I would put on music to play in the background while we played. I had a whole playlist for her.

I pulled it up the other day because I (obviously) hadn’t played it in a long time. It was a lot of Scottish songs. My granddaughter loved Ally Bally Bee and “danced” to it — which involved running around the couch.

I loved The Broon Coo, a song about a mischievous cow that breaks oot and eats all the hay and neaps (turnips) and chases the ducks.

Cows are near and dear to my heart. The cow population is our area has significantly declined over the 50+ years since my parents bought the house I am now living in. When we first moved here, though, there was a working dairy farm next door.

I wrote a poem about it some years ago and thought that I had posted it. Maybe I had and then took it down. Who knows? It happened to be in my overfull WordPress draft folder and I’ll put it at the bottom of this post. It’s not really stream-of-consciousness, you know.

If you’ve ever experienced feeding a cow something from your hand, you’ll know that it’s an unforgettable thing. The smoothness of their nose. The tongue pulling whatever it is off your hand. The slow patient chewing that ensues.

So many people are just in a hurry when they eat. They could learn a lesson from cows.

A horse’s muzzle is dry and it will use its lips to take whatever you’re holding. A cow’s nose is slimy — but in the best of ways, if there can be a best of ways for slime.

I used to walk down the road and play music for the cows. They would walk alongside me on their side of the fence.

Then there was the year the cows stampeded up our road when the guy was trying to load them in a truck. He eventually rounded them all up, save one — and there were feral cow sightings over the winter that year as it wandered the back hills. I don’t know whatever happened to it.

But the Broon Coo song is about a cow that breaks out and gets into trouble — which is what my poem is also about (kind of) except our cow was a black-and-white Holstein.

So I’ll leave you here with a few cow pictures and a poem. 🙂


When my parents bought the farm
(literally)
Pa Jackson was over the hill
(euphemistically and literally)

He milked the cows by hand
While the barn cats tumbled in the hay
(euphemistically and literally)
I watched with wide eyes
(the milking, not the euphemistic tumbling)

The Jacksons had a bull
To do the job of the artificial inseminator
And when our pet heifer,
Sock-it-to-me-Sunshine,
Wandered over
To visit the Jacksons’ cows
The bull also got to know her
(euphemistically)

Then, our heifer
Was in the family way
(euphemistically)
She was loaded on a truck
And sent to a home
For unwed cows

The next summer
The Jackson’s cows
Were also loaded onto trucks
And sent to auction
Because Pa Jackson was
Extremely
Over the hill
(euphemistically)

A few years later
We read in the newspaper
That he had bought the farm.
(euphemistically)

fiction

The Heart Scan

“This is very strange,” said the cardiologist. “I have never seen anything like it.”

“What is it, doctor?” she asked.

The monitor was facing away from her. The doctor stared, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. Finally, he stepped away and came around to sit beside her.

“Tell me again what you’ve been experiencing,” he asked.

“My heart starts racing. I get short-of-breath,” she said.

“Are you exercising when this happens?”

“No! I’m just sitting at my desk,” she said.

“It just starts randomly?” he asked.

Her face flushed. “Kind of,” she said.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked.

“N-n-n0,” she said.

He paused and moved on to explain what she was about to see. “We have new technology,” he said, “that takes information from many different studies and layers them to form an image of your heart. We took the images from your electrocardiogram, echocardiogram, MRI, and CT scan, and combined them. Then we took the electroencephalogram, the study of your brain waves, and layered that too. The result is an image that should show what is happening with your heart.”

She nodded, showing that she understood.

He stood up and turned the monitor to face her.

She looked at the image showing dry ground and a box marked, “Fragile.”

Just then her cellphone buzzed. She look at her phone, at the photo of the man calling her. Her face flushed; her breath caught; she put her hand over her heart to hold it in.


This week’s Unicorn Challenge. Rules are to use the image as a prompt and write a maximum of 250 words.

poetry

Liturgy

Lean
Into
The pained words
Uttered by men,
Repeated to the
God who already knows:
I believe in one God … I
Confess my faults; Have mercy, please,
According to all Your promises —
“Lean into the pained words uttered by men”


This is my response to the W3 prompt this week —

  • Share an emotion of yours in a “Dectina Refrain” poem.
  • Ten lines;
  • Syllabic: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10;
  • The tenth line is comprised of the first four lines all together, as one stand alone line in quotation marks. (apparently the quotation marks are optional.)
  • This wasn’t a requirement — but mine is an acrostic as well.

This whole “share an emotion” business is for the birds in my life right now.

I told my counselor that this week. Not a fan of emotions. At all. Not even a little. Please make them go away.

But I’ve been trying to pray again. Trying is the operative word here.

This is why liturgy is so important. When words fail, we still have words — old words that have been spoken for centuries.

I’m not alone.

fiction

Clean Your Room

“Is that my shirt?” Deena asked.

“What are you talking about?” her sister Sadie replied. “I bought this shirt a year ago.”

Deena shook her head. “No, in the photo.”

“What?! That’s a soap dispenser!” Sadie said. “I balanced it on the post and liked the shadows it made, so I snapped a photo of it.”

“Well, that’s my shirt,” Deena said, pointing to a faint bit of plaid visible through the doorway.

“Oh, yeah, oops,” Sadie said sheepishly. “I suppose you want it back?”

“Nah, you can have it.”

“Come here, Deena, and tell me what you see,” Sadie said, looking out the front window.

“I see Mrs. Smith weeding her flowers,” she answered, pointing off to the side. “Why?”

“Because I see your bike left on the lawn,” said Sadie.

“How about here?” she asked, pulling Deena into the kitchen.

“I see a sink full of dishes,” Deena said.

“And I see the fruit bowl on the counter!”

They both laughed and ran into the living room.

“Guess what I see here,” Deena asked.

Sadie looked off to the side, and saw the unfolded blanket on a chair. She pointed at it and Deena nodded.

“But what do I see?” Sadie asked.

Deena furrowed her brow and studied the center of the room. “The pile of books?”

“Yes!” Sadie squealed.

“Guess what I see,” said a stern voice behind them.

The girls turned.

“I see two girls with Saturday chores to do,” said their mother. “Start cleaning.”


This is my response to this week’s Unicorn Challenge:

Using the photo prompt, write a story of 250 words or less.

Then go clean your room.

Blather

Saturday Blather that dips into controversy

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

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

“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

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?