Do'Nut Eat This

 In my defense, I want you to know that, being gluten sensitive, I have been deprived of gluten products for several years. I’ve made due and it’s been tolerable. More recently I made a decision to limit my sugar intake and on top of that, gave up coffee for the week. Hopefully this helps you understand the frame of mind I was in when the following took place.

The tantalizing aroma of fresh baked donuts permeated the room. A perky young lady in a crisp apron stood smiling at the door of our store, rectangular pink box balanced in her hand. With a dimpled smile she presented the offering to my co-worker and I. “Compliments of your new neighbor; our bakery opened today!”

With reverence we carried the box to the employee break room. Upon sitting it down, and lifting the lid, a small moan escaped my throat and tears threatened to spill. My knees buckled and I knew my willpower had just run out the door taking common sense and pride along with her. 

There inside, nestled gently in white tissue paper were a baker’s dozen of the loveliest assortment of hot fresh-out-of-the-bakery treats. Glazed and frosted donuts, some jelly filled, apple fritters, bear claws, and oh my -- maple bars! My hands flew to my eyes. "DON'T LOOK! TURN AWAY NOW!!" But it was too late. Gluten be damned. Sugar free be damned. Forget about the strict healthy eating plan I was determined to follow.

The maple bar was cut in half in a futile attempt of restraint but I knew it was a joke. The entire bar would be eaten, by me, and in short order! In a heartbeat the feeding frenzy was on. Each bite was shameless unadulterated pleasure. Whimpers of ecstasy from my corner of the break room caused my co-worker to look over and chuckle. And, then, it was over. All that was left was the sweet stickiness on my fingers and a frosting glaze on my chin. I sighed and burped delicately.

Later, at home, as I rolled in discomfort from the thickening around my waist where my pants cut into my bloated belly, I sighed again and this time the burp was a belch and there was nothing lady like about it. But was it worth it?

 Finding a last drop of glaze in my bra cup as I undressed I said softly "Yes.” I licked the glaze off my bra. "It tasted just like a baby angel*."

*Credit Tim Hawkins for this amazing quote

That Favorite Time of Day

Its pitch dark and a heavy cloud of sleep presses upon her like the downy comforter in which she is curled up. In her dreams a bird is screeching in her ear and as she fights to ward it off it slowly transforms into a round metal ball. The metal ball continues to screech until finally the noise penetrates a new level of consciousness and she fumbles through the tangle of sheets and blankets to reach for the annoyance. 

Groping blindly her hand makes contact with the metal object, searches out the button and finally—silence! Exhausted from her efforts to protect her sleep, she now rolls onto her back and admits defeat. Forcing her eyes open, she searches the ceiling for the meaning of life, waiting for her brain and body to reconnect and allow her to negotiate her way out of bed.

Scuffing down the hall, her robe securely tied around her, she is aware that certain parts of her anatomy are more awake then others. Morning rituals must be followed. When she finally makes it to the kitchen she sniffs appreciatively; the auto setting on her coffee maker is a life saver.

Taking the first cup black, she lifts the mug to her mouth and sips slowly. This is nectar of the gods she thinks. This is a holy moment. She senses before she sees, her husband, ensconced in his chair in the living room already sipping his coffee. He lifts his mug in silent greeting; he knows the rule. No speaking till her cup is almost gone.

“There isn’t enough coffee in all of Central America to make me a morning person.” She once told him and he believes it. It is safe to say that early morning is not Jane’s favorite time of the day.

The early morning routine rarely changes and soon Jane has eggs frying while she tucks sandwiches into Sam’s lunch box. It’s amazing what a person can do in their sleep, Sam has said, after watching her shut the refrigerator door with her hip, while balancing juice, and a pot of jam in the crook of her arm. Although occasionally an unintended item makes its way into his lunch (the raw egg that was thought to be hard boiled comes to mind) Jane pretty much has getting him out the door each morning down to an exact science, whether she’s fully awake or not.

With Sam out the door and daylight still fuzzy on the horizon, Jane pours a second cup of coffee and adds her daily treat of half and half. Settling into her own chair, she is soon joined by a purring Marley. The tuxedo cat stretches across her lap and lets her scratch him between the ears for a few moments before taking his sentinel place on the back of the couch. This is Jane’s quiet time.

She will read her bible and perhaps a page or two from a favorite devotional before flipping open her journal and jotting down any significant thoughts. It is safe to say that without this quiet time each day Jane will flounder. It has taken her a long time to learn this and now it’s a habit she cannot afford to give up. As she returns her bible and journal to her chair side table, a little sigh of satisfaction escapes her. This might be my favorite time of day, she thinks.

The next thing of habit for Jane is a brisk walk through the neighborhood. She rarely misses a morning, regardless of the weather. On a cold or rainy day the exercise is especially invigorating. but on a sunny day she turns her face upward and soaks it up. Breathing deep makes her feel as if she could swallow the sun like a tall glass of orange juice.

When her walk is done and she places her shoes and coat back in the hall closet she feels accomplished and gratified. She truly enjoys the physical movement and the benefits she gains from being active. With her endorphins pumped up Jane is ready for anything. “Bring it!” she challenges. There is no doubt that her daily walks are a favorite part of her day.

Being a stay-at-home-wife and-empty-nest –mother means the rest of her day is quite practically hers to command. Household duties are easily interwoven with volunteer activities and outside interests. Doing laundry or running to the bank, a trip to the grocery store or to the library, women’s bible study, or preparing a meal for a shut in, all of these things bring Jane fulfillment. Contentment is a rare gift but Jane has learned that it is also a choice. Reaching out with both hands she grabs hold of it vigorously and tries to live in the moment. Could it be safe to say that those are her favorite times of the day?

Yet, when Sam returns each evening and she hears the motor announcing his arrival, a little pitter-patter occurs in her chest. Like the nervous flips her tummy did when they went on their first date, or the way her heart picked up speed when his eyes locked with hers, his return at the end of each work day still brings her pleasure. She kisses his cheek and tells him often that this is her favorite part of her day; his return. Watching his eyes light up when she says this only makes it all the more true.

And yet… when Jane sips her after dinner tea and reviews her day she is often surprised to realize how fast the day has gone. Keeping busy will do that but for Jane this goes deeper. She has spent a greater part of the day in her own company, something probably only an introvert can truly appreciate, but she is also aware that she doesn’t really walk alone. The presence of the Holy Spirit is always there, strengthening her, guiding her, teaching her. And when she offers her humble prayers of thanks for another day in His presence, she arrives at the conclusion that for every moment she recognizes this,  its beyond a doubt, the very best and most favorite time of her day.

Java Love

Coffee or Tea? The question was posed. My answer came swiftly.  Coffee. Hands down. No offense, Tea. I mean, I do enjoy a steaming cup of Earl Gray, made in a proper china teapot, every now and again—usually mid afternoon, with my feet up, but … its coffee that has my heart.

You have to understand. I grew up drinking coffee. I was raised on a dairy farm and it was my job every morning to bring the cows in from the field to be milked. This required EARLY rising and I am not, nor have I ever been, a morning person, let alone an early one!

Mom would roust me out of bed; I’d stumble out to the kitchen, wiping cobwebs from my eyes, to find a special treat waiting for me. A sturdy mug of coffee, specially prepared for me by Dad. Now, granted  it was mostly cream and sugar with a splash of coffee in it, (the original latte) but the privilege and luxury of sipping a mug of sweet creamy coffee made me feel  important, grown up and most of all, loved.

Charged up by the sugary octane, I would find my way to the mudroom for my coat and boots and head out into fields still shrouded in darkness to search out our herd of cows.

As I grew older the amount of coffee in the milky cup got stronger and while I eventually gave up sugar, the cream is still a very important part of my morning cuppa.

Now days, mornings are made possible by my husband, who almost without fail, brews a pot of fragrant coffee, before I’ve even rolled out of bed. When I scuff my way into the kitchen, he will hand me my cup. 

He knows to not try and engage in conversation with me until that cup is at least half way gone. That morning pot of coffee,I tell him, is one of the reasons I fall in love with him all over again. He chuckles but I’m dead serious.

I chuckle when I think of our early courtship, when he confessed to not being a coffee drinker and I, shocked at such an acknowledgment, drug him off to the nearest coffee house and introduced him to mochas. He can blame me for his coffee addiction, but I stand by my convictions. Coffee is a necessity!

I was terribly chagrined when a trip to the south a few years ago revealed an appalling lack of coffee stands. 

As in NONE. 

Sweet Tea, yes. Coffee? Uh, No.

I made do but after two weeks of Waffle House Sweet Tea, I was desperate. I threw myself shamelessly on the barista at the airport Starbucks and practically kissed her feet when she handed me my iced Americano. Hey. Don’t judge.

All our road trips start with a coffee stop. Gotta have proper fuel for the journey. I think the perfect road trip might be to plan it around espresso stands. We could call it research! One of the highlights now when we go camping is making coffee in my old fashioned percolator. That cheerful little glub, glug, glub as the water boils up into the coffee grounds and hits the little percolator knob? Sheer delight, I kid you not.

What else can I say about coffee? I love the aroma. The feel of the mug in my hands. But in the broader sense, it’s the conversations that take place and the relationships that build simply because someone says, “Let’s meet for coffee.”

The Preacher's Wife

Alice let the screen door slam behind her as she stepped out of the steamy kitchen onto the back porch of the café. Pulling an empty milk crate away from the wall with one hand, she scrounged her apron pocket for her cigarettes with the other. The carton had one slightly bent Virginia Slim left in it and she withdrew it carefully. Her tips had been good this morning. She’d be able to buy another pack before withdrawals kicked in.

She perched daintily on the milk crate and lit her cigarette with a shaky hand. Blowing out the smoke, she leaned back against the wall intent on relaxing. Behind her, the sounds of the kitchen echoed across the fresh fall air.

Rattling dishes, sizzles from the grill, the chatter of the other waitresses seasoned with occasional laughter all offset by Murphy growling orders. He hadn’t been happy when he saw her edging towards the door but he couldn’t exactly fault her for taking her break just then. He knew who had just settled herself at the lunch counter. Knew and understood.

Alice flicked ash off her apron and grimaced. That woman. Came in every day at the same time and always sat in Alice’s section. Her ample figure spilled over both sides of the stool but it would have been more difficult to fit in a booth.

“Order up!” She heard Murphy bark. One blue plate special being handed across the serving window where little Amber Dawn would stand on tippy-toes to reach it before delivering it with a big smile to the woman at the counter. Let Amber Dawn be the benefactor of Mrs. Horseman’s unsolicited advice today. Alice wasn’t going to rush back in there.

She finished her cigarette and glanced at her watch. She still had a few more minutes before she had to head back inside—enough time to pop over to the Shell Station and grab another pack of smokes. She hated that she’d picked up this nasty habit again but, C’est la Vie. 

She peeked in through the screen. Mrs. Horseman was bent over her plate, the floppy hat she favored bobbing slightly as she scooped up her mashed potatoes. Next to her on the counter, being jostled by her elbow was the main reason Alice had needed to escape. Feeling heat rising inside her, Alice whirled around and headed to the gas station.

For the entire three months Alice had been working at Murphy’s Diner, Mrs. Horseman hadn’t missed a day. At first it had been fine; Mrs. Horseman was trying to be supportive of Alice’s need to work. But as the weeks went on and it became clearer that the older woman had an agenda, it had become awkward. Now it was just plain irritating. The final straw had come over the last few visits, when Mrs. Horseman had pulled her bible out of her purse. Alice did not need this woman preaching at her. That was when she started pulling her disappearing acts.

The beeping of the delivery truck woke her from her reverie. She grinned when she saw the bearded face of the driver through the cab window.

“Hey Bernie!” She waved. Bernie leaned out the window, one beefy arm resting on the opening.

“Hey yourself.” He swung down from the truck cab, stretching as he did. “Taking a break?”

Alice crossed her arms tightly and jerked her head in the direction of the restaurant. “Oh, that old biddy Horseman is in for lunch. I needed to escape for awhile.”

Bernie chuckled. “She’s trying to save your soul Alice.”

“Yah, well, I don’t need saving. Why doesn’t she go after Marshall? He’s the one who walked out.”

Bernie scratched his beard.

“Alice! Yoo-hoo, Alice!”

Good grief, it was Amber Dawn hollering from the back door of the café. Alice waved, “Be right there!”

Turning back to Bernie she pressed some money into his hand. “I gotta get back over there. Be a doll for me Bern and buy me a pack of Virginia Slims. Menthol.”

Before Bernie could protest Alice was gone.

Back inside the kitchen Alice met the stony glare of her boss. “Sorry Murph. I lost track of time.”

Murphy nodded towards the dining area. “Your presence is requested out yonder.”

“My presence...?” She whirled around to see Mrs. Horseman still at the counter. Her heart sank. “Lord, have mercy.” Mustering up her strength she squared her shoulders and marched through the swinging café doors.

Determined to be polite Alice forced a smile. “Hello Mrs. Horseman.”

“Oh there you are Alice. I was afraid you’d taken ill. I haven’t seen you for a few days.” Mrs. Horseman beamed. “I just wanted you to know our ladies circle is still praying for you. We wanted you to have this.” With a flourish she presented Alice with a book.

Alice read the title. “The Power of a Praying Wife.”

Lovely.

Woodenly she listened as Mrs. Horseman plowed on. “Our ladies circle did this book as a study last year and it was simply amazing! One can never underestimate the power of prayer my dear.”

Alice felt the heat returning around her collar. Her palms itched. She hoped Bernie showed up with those cigarettes and soon. “Thank you Mrs. Horseman but I don’t think--”

“Oh no need to thank me hon. just knowing you’ll be reading and praying is thanks enough.” Mrs. Horseman stood, sweeping her purse and bible from the counter, nearly knocking her dishes off in the process. Alice reached out to settle them and the book slipped out of her hand. As she bent to retrieve it the empty carton of Virginia Slims fell from her pocket.

She heard the gasp from Mrs. Horseman and didn’t need to look up to know how aghast the woman was. Alice contemplated her choices.

She scooped up the book and the crumpled cigarette carton and straightened. Facing Mrs. Horseman she took a deep breath.

“I appreciate your prayers and your concern, I really do. But I’m doing fine. I know Marshall’s decision to leave has been a shock to everyone but he’s not coming back. The sooner we all accept it the better. I’m making peace with it and I hope you will too. But” she pushed on, ignoring Mrs. Horseman’s’ sputtering.

“I can assure you, I have not turned my back on God. I just need some time to figure things out.”

“We—we’d love to see you in church again Alice.”

Alice sighed. “It’s not a good place for me right now. Surely you can understand that. ”

“I know it must feel awkward Alice, but we’re your family. Regardless of what Pastor Marshall has done…”

Alice held up her hand. “I need time. You need to respect that.”

Her eyes locked with Mrs. Horseman and for the first time since she’d started working at Murphy’s she sensed something other than sympathy coming from the older woman.

With a deep sigh, Alice dropped her hand and turned away. She felt Mrs. Horseman’s hand on her arm.

“Of course dear. You take all the time you need. And remember, we’re here for you. I’m here.”

Nodding, Alice retreated to the back room. Ignoring the looks from Murphy and the other waitresses, Alice pushed her way back outside. There on the milk cartoon she found a fresh carton of Virginia Slims and a chocolate bar. 

Bless that Bernie.

* written in response to the writing prompt of incorporating the following characters into a story: chain smoker, preacher's wife, delivery man. 

Pink and Perfumed

I put out the challenge to my women writers group this week to write a story that incorporated certain words in the text.Well, of course, I included myself in the challenge. The assigned words were: magazine, she froze for a moment then, clever, it doesn't matter


Spilling the mail on the floor as she tripped over the entry way rug, Margo cursed under her breath. She watched as the new home design magazine slid across the freshly polished mahogany floor. Flinched inwardly as it ended up against the closet door, cover flipped back, crinkled, and slightly torn.

“Well, aren't you the clever one.” She muttered crossly. “Dan’s bound to be unhappy about that one.” Stomping to the closet, she grabbed the magazine as one would grab an offensive child by his collar. She smoothed the pages down and shoved loose inserts back inside, kicking off her boots as she did so. 

Satisfied with her efforts to restore order to Dan’s precious periodical, she slapped it down on the side table along with her car keys. Shrugging out of her jacket she marched back to the door to gather the rest of the wayward mail. Having grabbed the mail from the outside box on her way up the walk, she’d not yet scanned the contents and now took the opportunity to do so. Flipping past utility bills and bank statements, she smelled it before she saw it. Pink and petite, addressed to Dan in a loopy feminine handwriting, the perfume wafted up and tickled her nose.

She froze for a moment, then using her thumb and forefinger extracted the letter carefully. She flipped it over. No return address. Her golden-green eyes narrowed to slits. What the heck? Margo tapped the letter against the palm of her hand contemplating her next move.

She could set it on the hallway table with the rest of the mail and watch Dan’s reaction when he came home and saw it. She’d be able to tell a lot by his face. Poker-face was not a word you would use to describe Dan by any means. Would she confront him then and demand to know what was going on?

Or she could open it, obviously, and find out just who this brazen woman was and know exactly what was going on. She wouldn’t need to wait for some limp excuse, or worse, something she wasn’t ready to face.

Carefully now she laid the letter down on the kitchen counter and put some water on for tea. Paced back and forth across the tile kitchen as she waited for the water to heat. Picked up the letter. Set it back down. Paced some more.

When the tea kettle began to emit its whistle, Margo snatched the letter back up. Holding the letter in one hand she moved the tea kettle off the burner. What if the seal of the letter just happened to be in the path of hot steam… what then?

Lips pursed, Margo allowed the envelope to dangle in front of the tea kettle. Eyes wide with fascination she watched as the envelope flap curled slightly. Forgetting the tea making, she slipped one perfectly manicured finger against the flap and slightly under. With just a little more pressure the seal would give and the letter would be opened.

Aware she was about to cross a line she forced herself to take a deep breath and reevaluate the situation. Was not her and Dan’s relationship built on trust? Did she really believe something less than honorable might be going on here?

Yes, she reasoned, she did trust Dan. It was the sender of the fragrant letter that she wasn’t sure about. She laid the card back on the counter and crossed her arms.  

Slowly she began ticking off all the reasons she could think of that someone would write to Dan using pink and perfumed wiles.

Perhaps it was a thank you note. Dan volunteered often with Habitat for Humanity. It could be from one of the office gals. Or maybe it was from an aunt. She couldn’t remember Dan mentioning an aunt but she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt here.

After that, Margo was stumped. Suddenly her face brightened. “Oh! I know! Maybe it’s a gift card for me and Dan wants to surprise me with it later!” Then, “But why would they send it looking all girly-girl and smelling like…” she took a closer whiff. “… Vanilla Musk”

She slapped her hand against her forehead. Of course. Vanilla Musk. Her favorite. Available only from the Secret Pantry, where she had added Dan’s name to their mailing list a few months ago to help him remember upcoming events. Like their anniversary.

Her cheeks flushed, she hastened to the hallway table and laid the letter carefully among the rest of the mail.

“And if I’m wrong, it doesn’t matter. I trust Dan.”

Her decision made, Margo returned to the kitchen for her forgotten cup of tea. 

Once Upon A Pony

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has, what I like to call “The Romance of the Horse.” You know, that phase where she dreams about owning a horse, longs to ride and imagines herself astride Black Beauty, golden tresses flying in the air as she gallops her trusted stead across the hinterlands. (There will also be a guy on his own horse, riding in at some point to save the day. This male will be a combination of Prince Charming and Marlboro Man; magnetic and devilish, a Rhett Butler sort of man, yet fully capable of quoting poetry and whispering tender sonnets in the young lady’s ear.) In lieu of an actual horse, any and all books and movies about a girl and her horse will have to do.

I was raised on a dairy farm where there wasn’t a remote chance of convincing my father to trade in milk cows for beef cattle. Still, I fantasized about herding cattle, seeing clearly in my little girl mind that rounding up the cows for milking could be done in half the time if done on horseback. Never mind that I had never been on the back of a horse in my lifetime—the dream was clear—and very romantic!

Whether I was munching popcorn as I watched the weekly installment of “My Friend Flicka” on TV, or curled up tight on the couch clutching a well worn copy of “Misty of Chincoteague”, I was hopelessly in love with the idea of owning my own pony.

In the field behind our house, there was a gas tank. Nestled in a structure formed by 2 x 4’s, its round galvanized form provided an excellent place for me to practice my riding skills. With a bailing twine reign and a vivid imagination, I rode that pony hard, outrunning Indians, chasing stagecoach robbers and jumping hurdles as I competed against National Velvet. When the gas tank was moved and access to the top of the barrel became too challenging, I traded in my galvanized stead for a much narrower perch – the fence that circled our back yard.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to train one of our dairy cows to let me ride her but the bony back was a deterrent, not to mention a bovine stubborn streak a mile wide.

You can imagine my giddy delight when I learned we were going to take care of my uncle’s horse while the family went on an extended vacation. I had nothing but covetousness for my cousins who had access to this pretty little Shetland pony whenever they wished. By this time I had been lucky enough to have ridden on Brownie’s back when visiting and despite the fact that my cousin led Brownie around the field while I clutched her mane with all my might,  I had been over the moon with happiness. This had also whetted my appetite for my own horse even more.

I was at school when Brownie was delivered to our farm. When I got home, I hustled to change into my faded jeans and flannel shirt, positive this was the sort of clothes Calamity Jane would wear. Lacking cowboy boots, I tied my red kerchief around my throat, grabbed a shiny red apple from the fridge drawer, and raced out back to where Brownie was tethered.

My wild dash to the padlock came to a sliding finish as my red canvas shoe made contact with a fresh pile of horse droppings. Gross! I calmed myself long enough to wipe the offensive matter off on the grass that was already looking trampled by Brownies little hooves. Brownie, whose head had been buried in a nice bundle of hay, didn’t seem nearly as excited as I was to exchange greetings. As I called her name, she raised her head up and down with snorts and whinnies, registering some displeasure over being interrupted. I tried to woo her by proffering the apple. She snorted again and shook her mane.

I didn’t know much about Shetland Ponies then but I have since learned that while most Shetlands are thought of as excellent pets for children, due to their gentle nature, they can also be opinionated, headstrong, and even ‘cheeky’. I was about to learn that Brownie the Beloved, had a mean streak.

I held the apple out and I could tell she’d glimpsed the treat by the way her eyes rolled back and her head bobbed enthusiastically. She took a step towards me but instead of stretching my arm out more I brought the apple closer to me. My thought was to get her close enough to pet her silky nose and perhaps even be able to mount her. My cousins often rode her bare back, using her mane to hang on and their knees to guide her. All that training I’d done on the gas tank and the fence was about to come into good use.

I brought the apple close to my middle and spoke soothingly. Brownie snorted again and took another step closer. Suddenly she knocked the apple out of my hand and bit me! Right through my shirt her teeth went. There was no velvety brush of her mouth against me, just painfully sharp teeth. I gasped, the pain searing through me like a bullet. I backed away instinctively and Brownie, convinced she’d conveyed her annoyance with me, snorted again, and went after the apple that had bounced to the other side of the padlock.

Sucking desperately to catch my breath, I felt the hot tears rise and my chest heaved. I stared disbelievingly at this act of betrayal and then spinning around, I ran as fast as I could back to the house. In the privacy of my bedroom with my face buried into my pillow I sobbed until all my sorrow had been released.

Later that night I looked solemnly at the purple bruise, teeth marks clearly delineated. I refused to share my unfortunate incident with anyone in my family for fear of a scolding and for the rest of Brownies visit I stayed far far way. That was the day I hung up my saddle and bridle and retired my fence riding. 

Bloom Where You're Planted

yep, that's this years garden!

I don’t garden. Shocking but true. Just add it to a long list of things I don’t do:  I don’t sew. I don’t pintrest. I don’t play Martha Stewart and… I don’t garden. It’s not that I can’t. And it’s not that I won’t. And it is certainly not something I have never done. Because I have. Some of them have been successful. That one year the tomato yield alone was enough to supply salsa for most of East County. That was a good year! And Zucchini? Who can’t grow zucchini? Um... Apparently me, because the following year not even the long necked green squash grew under my attentive care.

One year we didn’t have time to work in the garden. By the time we finally got around to it, we found ourselves planting on the 4^th of July. Isn’t that when corn’s supposed to be knee high? Well, whatever. We planted late. Then we suffered an early frost and everything shivered to death on the vine before we could harvest it.

As I said, I don’t garden.

But I could. Early in our courtship, my husband wrote me a love letter in which he outlined things he was looking for in a woman. He listed gardening. A-hah. He wanted a woman who could garden? I’d be that woman! (He also listed darning socks but I’ve managed to finagle my way out of that one!) I was happy to don bib overalls and walk barefoot in the cool damp earth, dropping seeds into carefully prepared mounds of dirt. Ah, it was one of my finer moments.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against gardening. In fact, there’s something to be said for getting down on one’s knees and digging in the soil. (There’s something else to be said about getting back up but whatever.)  It just seems that gardening takes a special touch and, these days, I don’t seem to have it.

I can plant however! I love going to Home Depot and buying trays of pretty flowers and bringing them home to transplant into happy little pots to line up on my deck. This seems to work well for me. I sit outside watching my pretties bloom and I smile.

A few years ago, when I was a self employed business woman, the “Bloom Where You’re Planted” quote was very popular. I had never pictured myself running my own business but there I was, and doing it pretty well if I say so myself. It was hard work; long hours and much sacrifice but as the business grew and thrived, I did too. My self confidence grew tremendously during that time, as did my spiritual maturity. I knew God had planted me in the world of women’s fitness as a way to share my faith while encouraging women. About two years into the venture however, I hit a snag and things began to unravel a bit. That is when the bloom felt like it was fading and as year 2 slipped into year 3, I didn’t find the idiom of blooming where I was planted quite so cute and charming anymore. I switched my mantra for the next couple of years to a verse from Galatians that said, “Let us not grow weary while doing good…” Weary was the word all right and I prayed daily to be released from my role. Eventually that chapter was completed and I was free to move on.

For all my disparaging remarks about gardening, I do love the parallels between growing things in the soil and growing things in our hearts and souls. I look back over the many challenges I have faced in my life and recognize the many seasons I have gone through. Just as there were some good years in the garden, years that yielded good fruit, so there have been in my personal life. Drought and blight can and do descend, even when we are most diligent so finding ways to overcome are important. 

Just as I switched from trying to maintain a large garden plot to managing smaller containers, I’ve undertaken that in my own personal life also. Now, when I look out at my deck lined with its bright splashes of color bursting out of clay pots, I see happiness and joy. I hope that when you look at my life, you see the parallels. 

living on the deck, one grateful moment at a time. 

thanks to Suzanne A. for this weeks writing prompt: gardening. 

Choices

 The set up:the women's writing group I belong to offered me a challenge with a writing prompt via a selection of photographs. Instructed to choose one picture and write a story about it led me to this.(photo credit Anita van der Elst) 

Shandy was walking across campus when she saw the reporter setting up. Instinctively she ducked her head, hugged her bag of textbooks closer to her chest, and picked up the pace. She’d seen the journalist around the campus earlier; her political agenda crystal clear as she’d barraged some of Shandy’s friends with questions about pro-choice vs pro-life. The last thing Shandy needed was to be intercepted by this reporter.

Then, out of the corner of her eye she saw something then that gave her pause. Stopped in her tracks, she let her book bag sag beside her. Why in the world would Drew Kirkland allow himself to be pigeon holed by the reporter?

She didn't know Drew very well. Which was a shameful thing to say considering the one night they’d spent together several weeks ago. The party at a friend’s house off-campus had been exactly what you might expect for the college crowd. Shandy was introduced to Drew and there seemed to be an immediate attraction on both sides. Drew was attentive and kind, bringing her drinks and engaging her in enthusiastic conversation. There had been a lot of laughter, Shandy recalled, then kissing but after that things got hazy. Waking up the next morning with a cotton mouth, a pounding headache, and her clothes in disarray had been confusing enough. Realizing Drew was snoring next to her wearing even less than she was, was horrifying. Unsure at that moment of what had really taken place, she’d gathered her things and made a hasty escape, too mortified to face him.

Since then, whenever their paths had crossed, Shandy had avoided eye contact. Drew had made no attempts to interact with her and for that Shandy was torn. Embarrassment and disgust over what had obviously taken place that night won out over any desire to reconnect with Drew. The fact that she didn't seem to register on his radar told her he must feel the same way.

When the test result came back positive there was only one solution Shandy could think of, devastating as that seemed. But how could she tell anyone she was pregnant when she couldn't even recall the night it had happened? Forget about telling Drew. There was no way she could broach him about this!

And, now, here was Drew engaged in conversation with the reporter, presumably about the very thing weighing so heavily on her own mind and heart. Judging by the look on Drew’s face he felt passionate about whatever he was saying. Shandy wished she could hear him. Maybe she’d hear something that would give her direction about her pending decision. Something that would offer her even the slightest sliver of hope.

Cautiously she dared to come just a little closer.

A Breath of Fresh Air

I love going outside after a rainfall, when the air still feels fresh and moist. I'll breathe in deep and let out an audible sigh as the dampness that signifies a good washing down permeates my nose. I love to open a window on a warm day and feel the coolness a breeze brings. It refreshes as it delights. We all need a breath of fresh air don't we?

Speaking of fresh air, I want to share with you a delightful website that is all about a breath of fresh air! Yes, that is the name of the website: Breath of Fresh Air Press.It's a little publisher with a lot of heart, to quote from the website. BOFA is a Christian Publisher of encouraging, inspiring, fun fiction and non-fiction. I first learned of BOFA through my participation in Faithwriters, an online writing experience, where I entered weekly writing challenges. Because of the writing challenge, some of my short stories received the coveted Editor's Choice award, which were then selected to be published in anthologies. It's been awhile in coming but, the first of many (29 I believe) has at last been sent to the printers and are now available in the online bookstore at Breath of Fresh Air Press. 

I am SUPER excited to share this news with you because..... uh-huh-hum. One of MY short stories is in it!!! The book is called Mixed Blessings; Simple Pleasures. I will be having some of my stories appear in more books which will be coming out over the next several months. 

For someone who has been writing stories since she was about 10 years old, to have something published is really quite amazing, not to mention, such an honor! 

I hope you will take some time to check out BOFA's website and consider purchasing the book. You are sure to be blessed by the uplifting, fun, eclectic collection of simple pleasures!

Summer Day

google images

It’s hot, the kind of hot that makes the tar patches on the road soft and gooey, and dogs crawl under front porches to rut in the cool dampness of the earth. The kind of hot that makes Mama cranky and Grandpa lazy.

 Dawna June wishes she had fifty cents so she could buy an ice cold coke at the corner market. She sits on the top step of the peeling wooden front porch, absently scratching at a mosquito bite. She’s already ridden her bike through the sprinkler, steam rising as it sizzled off her shoulders. She wishes she lived closer to the creek. Her head tilted slightly she thinks longingly of the cool water trickling over rocks made slippery and smooth by the constant flow. She knows the perfect spot to wade in. Under a tall Elm tree, with a grassy knoll and a sandy strip of beach. She’s been there many times with her older brother Jake. But Jake is working in the fields with Papa and Mama won’t let Dawna June go to the creek by herself. But she might let her ride her bike to the corner market for a coke.

The screen door creaks and Dawna June glances up. Mama steps out, her plump cheeks rosy and glistening. She holds a shallow pan in one hand and Dawna June catches a glimpse of the green beans that will undoubtedly make an appearance at supper tonight. Mama’s gaze settles on Dawna June and a tired smile graces her face.

“Child, help me snap these beans.” Mama’s voice is soft; she never yells. Dawna June recognizes an opportunity to gain favor. She accepts the pan and a scoopful of beans and begins snapping.

google images

 “Mama, when I’m done with the beans could I ride over to Eli’s and get a coke?”

“May I and I reckon that’d be alright. You got money?”

“Um… no Ma’am…” Dejected, Dawna June sighs resignedly. Grandpa, who has been dozing on the sofa on the other end of the porch, his straw hat covering his face, mumbles something.

“What’s that Pa?” Mama speaks without turning to look. Dawna June looks hopefully at the overall clad figure, now swinging his legs over the cushions to upright himself.

“Said I reckon I can cough up a couple quarters for the girl. Providing she brings me back one too.” He fans his face with the hat and winks at his granddaughter.

Dawna June grins, her snapping picking up speed. Done with her portion she looks expectantly at both adults. Mama takes the proffered bowl of beans and adds them to her own. Grandpa struggles to fish the change out of his pocket, his ample girth making it all the more challenging. Dawna June has already mounted her bike by the time her grandfather has come down the stairs and places the warm coins in her eager hand.

“Come right back, y’hear?” Mama instructs. “And mind you watch for cars!” This last bit of instruction shouted as Dawna June’s short legs are already pumping her down the driveway.

google images

She picks up just enough speed to create a breeze and delights in the cool refreshment as it lifts her damp bangs off her forehead. She dips her head back slightly and grins. The road to Eli’s Corner Market is mostly straight and the traffic is nil. She experiments with riding one handed, then, recklessly outstretches both arms at her sides and whoops as the bike wavers. Three seconds. She’s improving.

Pretending she’s riding a horse, as she approaches the store she dismounts while the bike is still moving, nearly wiping out when she miscalculates her speed. Mrs. Finney, who has just left the store lets out a cry of alarm as the two nearly collide. Some fussing from Mrs. Finney makes Dawna June slow down, but just barely. 

Dawna June can almost taste that cold liquid gliding down her parched throat. She hurries to the deep chest located at the front of the store and plunks her money down on the counter with one hand, lifting the squeaky hinged lid with the other. Mr. Eli palms the coins and nods as Dawna June wrestles two green coke bottles out of the icy cavern. One she tucks carefully into the back pocket of her shorts, the cold wetness making her draw in a quick breath. The other bottle is immediately angled at the side of the cold chest, where the bottle cap is popped off by the built in opener.

google images

She walks outside and stands on the wooden porch, and lifts the bottle to her lips. The dark caramel liquid bites slightly, the peppery taste always a shock to her taste buds in that first sip. A hiccup breaks free and she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Finding a seat on the empty bench outside the store, Dawna June enjoys the soda while watching nothing. 

It is a perfect afternoon.  

Field of Screams

"Put that snow ball down! I’m serious! Don’t you dare—"

Too late! The snowball makes impact with the side of my head and small particles of icy slush trickle down the unprotected gap between my hat and my coat collar. 

I shriek. I squirm. This only makes it worse as the snow continues to wriggle its way down my back. I scoop up my own slush ball and throw it like the girl that I am. It falls pitifully short of the goal and now he stands there laughing harder.

I scoop another and charge at him, with all my might. His laughing face turns to surprise as I run full blast with no sign of stopping and no sign of lobbing my slush ball. To be honest, I don’t know what my plan is, other than to convey my displeasure at his juvenile attempt at humor.

Full body contact happens before either one of us is prepared, and now we are a tangled heap in the snow. I realize just how much of my body is touching his. But my attempts to push off and stand fail as my boots slip and now I am flopped on top of him once again. I gasp.

He pushes me off but he is still laughing and I am panting. Getting up will take too much effort. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the sky. We are content to stay horizontal for just a second. Just long enough to feel the biting cold penetrate. He stands first, and now, all about being a gentleman, offers me a hand.

I shouldn't trust him. He is up to no good. But his face is sincere and he waits patiently for my mitten-clad hand to enter his open bare one. I accept his outstretched paw and the gentle tug he gives me tugs my heart as well.

And he lets go. I knew it! I can’t believe I fell for his trick! My shrieks equal that of a muffet on a tuffet with a spider dangling close by.

Then I am silent and I lay still, eyes closed no sound except for that of my breathing. He leans over me. “You okay?” 

Oh sure, now he wants to act sincere again. I refuse to acknowledge him or his stupid question. He leans closer; I sense his nearness. I can feel his body shifting as he drops to one knee, his face coming closer to mine. 

"Nina? Are you—OH!—"

Splat! I have delivered my surreptitiously gathered ammunition directly between the eyes! I give some extra smoosh action to his face. Oh- ho-ho! Who is laughing now? I am on my feet, whooping, doing my victory war dance around him as he struggles to stand. The gleam in his eye warns me and I turn to run.

Slipping across the surface, we lope. He is right on my tail and I am once again shrieking. I hear him yell and I turn to see him fall. I stop. Should I be concerned? He rises as far as his knees, and then in feigned defeat, hangs his head low in shame.

“Truce?” I say. I can be gracious.

“Truce.” He agrees.

Side by side, we walk towards the cabin. His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean into him, contentedly.

From the porch, we can hear the sounds of our audience: the disgusted groans of our children intermixed with the delighted laughter of our grandkids. Yes, the old folks are at it again. Will we ever learn to act our age?

Bookworms and Blueberries

“Mom, what does ‘i-dee-lick’ mean?” I looked up from my bread dough to meet the chocolate brown eyes of my youngest daughter. Slightly confused by what could only be incorrect pronunciation, I requested she spell it.

“Idyllic.” I said. “It means peaceful or calm, pleasant.” I paused, thinking. “I spent an idyllic afternoon in the hammock.” Satisfied, Tessa returned to her book and I, to the pounding of the dough.

Tessa was a reader. While her older brother and sister were usually found outside chasing butterflies or playing catch, I could count on finding Tessa curled up in a chair, book in one hand, the other one twisting a lock of hair.

I certainly didn’t mind! I was an avid reader myself. Todd and Tara were too, but they much preferred the outdoor activities of the farm and helping their dad during the day. Save the book reading for evenings when daylight was gone, or the weather too unpleasant to play in. 

Ours was a good life, this one my husband and I had carved. Country kids, both of us, when the McGregor Farm came up for sale, we couldn’t think of a better place to raise a family. We doled out chores along with discipline and manners. It was the way our parents raised us and their parents had raised them.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched my eight year olds mouth work its way around another unfamiliar word. My heart surged with pride for her independent streak that would not allow her to ask for help until she had exhausted her own efforts. Sure enough I saw her face alight with comprehension and she sank deeper into her little world.

I moved the bread dough to the warming oven and wiped my hands. “Tess, tear yourself away from your book a minute and come take a walk with me.”

She groaned but obeyed. While I was glad she loved to read, I worried that my little bookworm wasn’t getting enough physical activities. As we made our way down the worn path to the garden, I looked closely at Tessa. In the sunlight, I noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wondered how long she’d stayed awake the night before, reading under the covers. I circled my arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to me. Instantly she stood straighter.

It had been a busy productive summer as usual and perhaps I had been too busy to really pay attention to my quiet compliant child. With a rowdy thirteen year old son and a precocious eleven year old daughter clamoring for my time, Tessa was the easy one. Maybe too easy, and too often overlooked with all these things demanding my attention. I resolved to spend some extra time with Tessa before school resumed next month.

We had reached the blueberries and we knelt together as I handed Tessa a bucket that rested against the fencepost. For some time we picked berries in companionable silence, enjoying the plinking of plump ripe fruit as it landed in the buckets. The sunlight danced across the burnished red of the blueberry bush. The cooing of a dove lulled us.

“Mom?” Tessa’s voice broke the stillness. “Is this an i-dyl-lic moment?”

Sitting back on my heels, I studied her small face for a moment, brushing a strand of hair so I could see her eyes better. A memory floated to the surface like a picture from a storybook. I was a child picking vegetables from the garden with my mother. It was a memory awash in sunshine, fragrant and rich. Tessa grinned at me. A wave of love rushed over me, a love so fierce, so pure. I wished I could freeze frame this moment.

"Idyllic? Yes, Tessa, I believe it is.”

* this story will soon be appearing in an upcoming publication, "Mixed Blessings, Simple Pleasures" a series of anthologies brought to you by Breath of Fresh Air Press. For more information on Breath of Fresh Air Press please like their Facebook page or look for them on the Faithwriters website.