Tag: daily prompt

Faith · Writing

The Wedding

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It wasn’t one of those smug sort of weddings. You know the kind, right? Over the top in lavishness. No expense spared. The kind where the bride and groom are ostensibly the center of attention, but really they aren’t, because it’s all about showing off perceived wealth.

No, it wasn’t that kind of wedding.

It was the kind where the whole town turns for the celebration because they’re so happy for the couple. Because they’d watched those kids grow up since they were little. Because both sets of parents were nice hard-working people who probably had, at one time or another, helped every single person in that town.

J’s mother went. She had been invited.

Well, so had J — and he went along with some other people who were with him.

Everyone was having a great time — until the wine ran out.

J’s mother scoured the crowd looking for him. She finally found him sitting in a corner, away from the noise, chatting with some people.

She went to him and gently placed her hand on his arm to get his attention. When he looked at her she whispered, “They have no wine.”

“Woman,” he said — (why DID he call her ‘woman’ like that?? I don’t think it was meant to be unkind) — “what does this have to do with me?”

They looked at each other quietly, each studying the other’s expression. They knew each other so well. She knew things about him that no one else knew. Finally, he spoke again, “It’s not my time.”

His mother thought for a quick second. She had assumed he would take action. Were his words an acknowledgment that he could do something if he felt the time was right? She seized the moment. She turned to the wait-staff. “Do whatever he tells you,” she said.

And the rest, you know, is history. J delivered.

Water became wine. People scratched their heads and marveled, surprised and amazed. Some guests were totally oblivious — as we all are at times — and simply thought that the host had reserved the best wine for the end.

But one day the story would be told and retold and written down, because it was a miracle, and miracles need to be remembered.

This is my contribution to the MLMM Monday Wordle where the challenge is to weave some or all of the prompt words into a bit of writing. I chose to rewrite another well-known story from the Bible. This one appears in John 2. Of course, it may have happened in a way that is nothing like what I have written — but it’s fun to imagine.

The prompt words are: smug, noise, celebration, assumed, gentle, quiet, reserved, delivered, surprised, guest, one, unkind

dreams · Life · Writing

A Pen Dream

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Last night I had a dream in which a wild-eyed prophet appeared before me and told me this story:

Once there were two people in a hospital room.

One had drawers full of pens at home. Not the cheap ones that come 12 to a pack for $1.99, and not $200 fancy-schmancy pens, but nice ones, in assorted colors and point thicknesses and types. Her favorites were Pilot G-2 07 — and she owned at least 50 of them, keeping them in every room of her house, and multiples in her carrying bag.

The other worked at a low-paying hospital job. His employer purchased cheapy pens that came 12 to a pack for $1.99. The pens skipped and blurped out ink blobs and were entirely unreliable, so he saved up the loose change he found in the parking lot of the grocery store or on the sidewalks when he was walking home. Finally, he had enough to purchase one Pilot G-2 07.

She hadn’t expected to be in a hospital room that day. She didn’t have her bag. She didn’t have any pens with her. When she was asked to sign some papers, she needed a pen. Almost as if by magic, this Pilot G-2 07 was placed in her hand, and she signed the various papers on the proper lines beside the hastily scrawled red X’s.

When she finished, she looked for the person who had handed her the pen, but everyone was gone from the room. Everyone. The nurses were at the nursing station. The housekeeping person was dry-mopping the floor. The transporter person was pushing the pen-lady’s family member to radiology.

She looked at the pen in her hand. It was a nice one. Blue. Fairly new. Shiny.

And she thought, “I could just stick this pen in my pocket, in case I need to sign something else today. Nobody will really miss it. It will go very nicely with the dozens of other pens I have at home.”

When the housekeeping person came into the room looking for the pen, the pen-lady pretended not to notice because she had the pen tucked neatly in her pocket.

“Wait — ” I said — in my dream, of course. “That’s not what happened. I did NOT keep the pen.”

“You thought about it,” the wild-eyed prophet said accusingly, and his wild eyes grew even wilder as he stared at me.

“It was a FLIT,” I said. “The thought flitted through. I never seriously considered keeping the pen.”

“You did. You lusted after that pen,” he said.

How can anyone argue with a wild-eyed prophet in a dream?! I found myself going back to that moment, when I held the pen and didn’t know who the owner was. In the space of a firefly blink, I had thought about keeping it — but then I set it on the stand where the owner could easily find it.

The wild-eyed prophet interrupted my mental replay of the situation. “You have a pen problem,” he said, much more gently now. “You have more pens than a person needs — and you keep purchasing more. You go down the pen aisle at Target, Office Max, even the Family Dollar, and you look at pens. You buy pens. You don’t need any more pens.”

“But… but…” I stammered, “I like pens.”

“Give them away,” he said, his voice growing distant as he seemed to be being sucked into a far-off light. “Commit to sharing your pens…. Carry them in your bag …. and give them away.”

Then, he was gone.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

What does it all mean, I wondered?

This post was originally written in June 2017. I even posted it because it has two comments from that time — both from siblings! I’m insecure enough about my writing, though, that I moved it back to the draft folder, probably within 24 hours.

Today’s Word of the Day prompt is Parking Lot. This post came up in the draft folder. When I read it, it made me laugh — in part because I DO have dreams like that, and in part because I still have a pen problem.

fiction · Writing

The Duke, the Princess, and the Biscuits

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The duke was worn out. All this walking was exhausting. He sat on a park bench while his companions went down the hill looking for a shop to purchase some food.

A young woman passed him and sat down at the picnic table across the dirt path. She pulled from her bag a biscuit which she began to eat.

The duke called over to her, “Give me a biscuit.”

He offered no pleasantries, no polite greeting, no polite asking, just ‘give me’.

Her head jerked up. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. Finally she said, “How is it that you, a man unknown to me and of a different people, ask me for a biscuit?”

He smiled at her. At that instant he knew exactly who she was, a disgraced princess from a neighboring kingdom. He replied, “If you knew the person asking you for a biscuit, you would have asked him instead for something you need desperately, because he has the means to give you what you need most.”

The pauses in their conversation were long and palpable. She studied his face, his clothing, his dusty shoes. Finally she spoke again, “Sir, I can see that you have nothing. You are alone. Do you have something more than the baker in the town who gave me these biscuits?”

“When you eat a biscuit,” he replied, “it sustains for a time. You have other needs as well. What I have is a forever resource.”

“Okay,” she replied, “I’ll take the bait. Give me some of whatever it is you have.”

“Call your husband and come back to me,” he said.

“I don’t have a husband,” she answered.

His mouth curved into a slight smile as he chuckled. “I know that. You have struggled in that area of your life. You’ve left your husband and the man you are with now is not your husband.”

Her eyes widened. She had been found out. She couldn’t identify the flurry of feelings causing her heart to race. Was it panic? Happiness at no longer having to hide? Fear of consequences?

“I am the Duke,” he said. “I know your whole story. Words of accusation on a sheet of paper only tell a small part of who you are. I will keep you safe.”

This is my response to today’s MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie & #Wordle where the challenge is to weave a bunch of prompt words into a post. Today’s words are: biscuit, passed, duke, found, slight, princess, curved, sheet, alone, downhill, happy, companion.

Some Bible stories haunt me. I’ve spent years thinking about the man who tells Jesus, “Sir, I have no one,” in response to Jesus asking him if he wants to be healed. (John 5)

Lately the woman at the well has been haunting my thoughts. (John 4) This is a (sort-of) retelling of that story.

poetry

Modular

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Modular home – not for me
Standardized rooms feel empty
Hobbit house fills me with glee
Better yet – home in a tree

This 3-story treehouse is somewhere near Revelstoke, British Columbia.

This is my second attempt at a Tanaga which is  a traditional Filipino poetic form, similar in its brevity and depth to the Japanese haiku. It often uses rich metaphor, or talinghaga, to offer wisdom, advice, or vivid imagery. There is absolutely no wisdom or advice in my Tanaga — just a cool treehouse.

The rules for a tanaga are:

  • Write exactly four lines.
  • Use seven syllables in each line.
  • Follow an AAAA rhyme scheme. Modern variations such as ABAB or AABB are also welcome.
  • Traditionally, tanagas are untitled, allowing the poem to speak for itself.

This is also my response to the RDP prompt: Modular

Life

Whatever

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Whatever you do in life, surround yourself with smart people who’ll argue with you.
John Wooden

January 12, 2015 I wrote that quote as the start of a post and never wrote any more. It sat there in my draft for 11 1/2 years, until today when then Ragtag Daily Prompt (RDP) was the word “whatever.“

John Wooden was an American basketball coach. He is considered one of the greatest coaches of all time. When I was coaching swimming, I read some of his books, and found him to be so wise.

That quote encapsulates something I believe so strongly. I remember telling my high school swimmers that their competitors are there to help them swim their best time. I still remember a moment when I saw that in action.

It was the league championship meet. One team, Delhi, always dominated. I had been told when I took over coaching that we would never beat them and that the previous coach’s goal had been to score x-number of points. I thought that was a silly goal and that we should work to be the league champion.

Anyway, it was the league championship meet. The score was incredibly close.

The second to last event in a high school meet is the 100 yd breaststroke. I knew we didn’t stand a chance to win it, but if we did, we could win the meet. Delhi had an amazing breaststroker. My breaststroker, a girl named Becky, was good, but not that good.

When the girls dove in at the start, Becky had a good start. Her pullout was good. She looked strong, but she was clearly behind. At each successive turn, Becky pulled closer to that lead swimmer. In final 25, Becky came on so strong, it still brings tears to my eyes as I remember it.

Becky was right there — RIGHT THERE — at the finish, and the Delhi swimmer out-touched her. That win for Delhi meant that winning the championship was out of reach for us. (That year. The next year we won it.)

But in that moment, I watched Becky do something I will never forget.

Becky turned and looked at the times on the scoreboard. With the biggest grin on her face, she reached over the lane line to shake hands with the swimmer who had won. I watched Becky say thank you to the girl who just won.

When she got out of the water, she said, “You were right, coach! That swimmer helped me swim my best time.”

And it was a best time by a lot.

Becky and Olympic swimmer Jenny Thompson flexing together

The championship was small potatoes compared to the lesson I saw played out. People who are smarter, stronger, faster help us become better versions of ourselves. They push us and challenge us.

Writing this out made me think of this movie scene from As Good As It Gets

And all this is to say, that maybe, just maybe, Mark Carney can help someone in the US government be a better man.

fiction · nonsense · Writing

None of this is true

Sally9 Comments

“There was this huge monkey, I tell you, HUGE,” said the old man. His rough unshaven face, the bit of spittle leaking down the left side of his mouth, the crust in the corners of his eyes all spoke of age and hardship.

The young man was busy writing. He glanced up at the old man as if giving him permission to continue.

“The monkey was in the back of the trailer. It had a shit-eatin’ grin on its face and a shovel in its hand,” the man continued, balling up his right fist as if demonstrating how the monkey held the shovel.

The young man continued to write.

“I was feared it was goin’ to grab the cash. Y’know, the cash was just sittin’ right out there by the birthday cake,” said the man, pointing to an imaginary table with a cake and cash.

The young man put his pen down and looked at the older man. “Mr. Smith,” he started to say, but the old man interrupted him.

“That damn monkey was gonna carry away MY birthday cash, MY birthday cake!” he shouted. “It was TOO MUCH!”

He tried to get out of his chair, but the restraining belt held him in place. He struggled, his hands gripping and pressing against the arm of the chair.

His exertions were loud and drew attention from the others in the room. They had all been mildly watching the morning news on the communal television, and he was now far more interesting than that.

“Mr. Smith,” the young man said again, “it’s time for your meds.” He took out a hypodermic needle and called over his shoulder, “Nurse, I might need a little help today.”

This is my response to the Monday Wordle where we are invited to use a specific list of words in prose or poetry.

Today’s list: cash, huge, monkey, much, grin, shovel, birthday, carry, took, back, trailer, grab

I read the list. I saw the story. I wrote it down.

Faith · poetry

In a Box

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The Word of the Day is instrument, so, of course, I searched my draft folder. The only thing with that word was this quote which I had copied into a post back in 2015 and never wrote any more.

The Holy Spirit is not a gift for us to use as we like, but a power using us at his good pleasure. Nevertheless our freewill is his instrument, and he does not force it… His action is like the rising waters of the tide, ready to fill every cranny that opens in the reef it engulfs, yet forcing no openings that are not offered.

~~ Austin Farrer, Saving Belief

It is a theme I have been thinking about for years — the way we think that we are the potters and He is the clay, the way we try to manipulate God. I know people who have totally turned their backs on religion because of the way some religious folk use God as a cudgel.

“God in a box” — that’s what I think people do. He’s much safer that way. We control him. Here are two verses of a too-long poem I wrote that also sits unfinished.

I fold up god to fit the box
Then put the lid on tightly
It’s so much safer – him in there –
I go to see him nightly

I say hello, complain a bit
Ask for a thing or two
Put the lid back on the box
Before heading to the loo

family

Little League Lessons

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Once, twice, thrice
Three strikes! Yer out!
The words sound angry
But they’re just fact
Final judgment on a lone at-bat
The team bench is no haven
Brings no peace
Thoughts of why and if
Dreams of a hero home-run
Realization — none
Game over
Dejection
Until
Kind words from dad
Your swing looked great
Next time
Hope given
Love felt

This is my response to MLMM Wordle where writers are invited to weave the prompt words provided into a piece of prose or poetry. Here are the prompt words: once, three, haven, peace, thoughts, why, angry, if, final, love, none, dream

Life

Just A Trip to Walmart

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This post was originally written August 5, 2017 and has languished in my draft folder since then.

The father bellowing at the little boy in the Walmart parking lot was a bad start.

“JOHNNY,” he roared, “GIT YER A$$ OVER HERE.”

The open tailgate made me think that the father had been putting his purchases into the car. The boy skulking back from the cart corral looked to be about 8 or 9 years old. He was scowling. I would scowl, too, if someone spoke to me like that.

Walmart. I felt a snobbish “ugh” rising inside me.

Inside, the store was a disorderly mess.

“You can always tell when the students start coming back,” commented a woman looking at the same merchandise as me. “They trash the place.”

“It is a mess in here,” I agreed.

“I shop here every week,” she said. “Today is the worst I’ve seen it.”

I gathered my items and found the shortest line to check out.

The shortest line was not short.  When the elderly couple ahead of me finally got up to the register and the cashier was nearly finished scanning, their package of chicken needed a price-check.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, turning to me. I could barely see his eyes under the brim of Carhartt cap.

“No worries,” I said. “I’m not in a hurry.”

“Me and my wife got a carful of groceries already,” he said, nodding toward a hunched-over woman with blue-gray hair. “Frozen stuff prolly meltin’ in the car… but she forgot a few things so we come back in.”

A few things meant a cartful.

“I hope you aren’t far from home,” I said.

“Blenheim,” he said.

I knew that was about an hour away. In the middle of nowhere. Near Breakabeen.

“I’m sorry,” I told him.

The Walmart supervisor came to check on the chicken. She called on the radio to the meat department. “Anyone there gimme a price on some chicken?” she asked. I couldn’t hear the response because of her earpiece, but I didn’t need to — she announced it. “I gotta walk this over to the chicken department to get a price,” and off she walked.

I turned to the man behind me. “I’m sorry,” I said, even though I knew I had nothing to be sorry for.

“No problem,” he said. “I just moved here from Long Island. You should see the lines in their stores.”

So we waited.

“You could move over to a different line,” said the Carhartt man.

I looked at the line next to ours. It was moving faster, but I’m not one to jump ship. A burly man helped unload an elderly woman’s cart on the belt, but when he left with his bag, I realized they weren’t together. It was just a nice move.

The chicken department was on the far side of the store. I kept watching that direction to see if I saw the supervisor heading back.

The blue-haired wife mouthed “I’m sorry” to me. I smiled at her.

I made eye contact again with the man behind me. “I was in Europe this summer,” I told him. “Time doesn’t seem to matter as much there.”

“I know,” he said. “We could learn a lesson or two from them.”

The chicken was still MIA.

In the line next to me, a man holding a plant — his only purchase — was let ahead of a customer with a full cart. “Thank you SO much,” he said, enthusiastically. The woman who had let him pass just smiled.

I smiled, too.

There were nice people all around me.

In Walmart.

Finally chicken lady returned.

I told Long Island man, “Here she comes!”

“Hooray!” he said.

I felt like we should clap or something.

By the time I got to the parking lot, I had nearly forgot the unpleasant father-son interaction because I had seen and talked to so many nice people in the store that day.

 I could guess why I never posted this — too wordy. It’s a problem I have.

But the message to look for the nice people? Yes, I needed that today.

Be not conformed to the impatience and nastiness of the world, but be transformed by the goodness that’s right in front of you if you look for it. (a bastardization of Romans 12:2, but nonetheless true.)

Alzheimer · Alzheimer's · dementia · elderly · family · Leaning In · Life · Writing

The Feeder’s Table

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This is a draft written February 6, 2015, pulled from the draft folder because of the RDP prompt word: tame

From across the room, I heard the man bellow, “NO!”

I had no clue what this was in reference to — he was across the room, after all, and I was attending to my mother in the midst of her ritual folding and unfolding of her mealtime protector (aka – bib) while waiting for the food to arrive.

A woman at his table shouted out, “SNOW!” It was snowing out.

She laughed at her rhyme, a dry cackle-y laugh, not because she was a witch, although it did make me think of one, but because she was very old and shriveled, and even her laugh bore witness to that.

“He said, ‘NO,’ and I said, ‘SNOW,'” she said gleefully, and it reminded me of the little “jokes” that first- or second-graders make, when the littlest thing sends them into gales of laughter.

However, the jokesters were across the room, while my mother sat at the feeder’s table, a table set aside for residents who need assistance with eating. She dines with five other ladies with dementia.

To my mother’s left is a dear lady that reminds me of a sparrow. Her voice is quiet and sing-songy. Sometimes she makes sense and sometimes she doesn’t, but I always have to listen very closely when she speaks. (Professor Trelawny)

Next to Sparrow is a woman with a chiseled angular face. (Professor McGonigle) She never speaks. She sits erect and stern, like a statue of a school matron staring across her desk at a wayward student.  However, I had met her many years before, when she was an OB nurse. She had come into my room after I had given birth to somebody because she wanted to tell me about my father.

“I remember your father’s first day at the hospital,” she said. “He came in toting a little black doctor’s bag. A little black bag!” She laughed when she told me the story, and her eyes twinkled with the delight of that memory. My father still has that black bag with its stethoscope, reflex hammer, otoscope, and other doctorly treasures.

To her left sits a white-haired lady whose dementia has a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde effect on her.  (Quirinius Quirrell) One minute she is sweet and the next she is spewing venom.

Next to Mrs. Hyde sits the newest diner at the feeder’s table. I’ll come back to her.

To Newby’s left is Mrs. Tiggywinkle, so designated because of her hedgehog hairdo.  Teens pay a lot of money and use a lot of product to get hair like hers, sticking straight up all over her head. My father has to repeatedly request that my mother’s hair get combed. Some of us are just stuck with wayward hair that no amount of combing can tame, and I suspect that’s the case with Mrs. Tiggywinkle.

The draft ended and I never finished it. I don’t remember who the person I called Newby is, so I can’t come back to her now. I don’t even remember the point of this story.

My mother died 9 months later.

Reading drafts and posts from that time in my life are interesting to me. I’m glad that I chronicled the journey.

Advice to anyone going through a stressful time: Write down what you see and hear and feel. It’s a gift to your future self.