An afterthought

 The snow and the cold give way to warm days and cool nights, the smell of new growth filling your senses with all that is Springtime. Blades of grass peek out from the ground soon to be nipped off by lawnmowers as gloved hands work the soil preparing for an autumn harvest. The tulip bulbs you planted in almost frozen ground show signs of blooming with a variety of colors soon to be placed in Grandma’s favorite vase giving the kitchen table a much-needed look after the grays of winter days. Wearing a sweater, you sit on your porch taking in the smells and sounds of the rebirth all around you and the nearness of hot summer days. The warm cup of coffee held between your hands to be replaced with lemonade and ice cream cones for everybody. It’s a time we give thanks for getting through the worst winter has to offer, knowing we have time now to enjoy what’s been given to us in the forms of green springs, orange autumns, and sunbaked summers when the smell of burgers on the grill, backyard pools, and endless evening walks complete us. The blank white artists’ pallet stored in the attic will be retrieved and the time it lay dormant will soon explode in a rainbow of colors you see all around you. I think that maybe the harshness of winter is meant to purify our souls by freezing everything that is beautiful until we are fortunate to see it all again.

M.O.

The shadows

                                                                    The shadows:

 

Some people just have a sense of things and I believe I am one of them. I’ve always been able to see way back into my past, sometimes as young as one year old. I know that sounds crazy but nonetheless, true.  I’ve always had the ear of God, meaning I knew he was with me, guiding me past certain death on more than one occasion. I’ve felt him blow life into my lungs as I struggled to breathe and stay with me until he felt like letting go of my hand. I don’t know why I’ve been blessed with these abilities but I’m grateful and proud to have been chosen. As a teller of hundreds of stories, it never amazes me that when finished, I read it and wonder where that came from. Sure, they’re my words, my characters, and my story but somehow, I don’t feel like I should take credit for something I don’t know if I wrote, or if I was just taking notes for the true author. Like most writers we write for others to read but also to test the depths of our minds, reaching deeper than we’ve ever gone to tie everything in a nice red bow and offer it for sale. Every word holds meaning, every character comes alive and sometimes dies, and every ending could be the beginning of another chapter one. I love creating stories even if they don’t get read and just collect dust on a bookshelf in a dark and musty room. Maybe someday one of my great-grandchildren will stumble upon one of my stories and show great interest in the way the elders put words on paper seemingly done without any power source, and they will read my stories and tell their friends of their great find in a very old house in a dark and musty room, and I will come out of the shadows and listen to my words.

M.O.

Christmas now and then

      As a young child, I would lay in my bed on Christmas Eve hoping to hear sleigh bells telling me of the approaching man in red. I would have my covers pulled up under my chin, so I could close my eyes quickly and look like I was fast asleep. My parents had told me if Santa saw me with open eyes, he would go right past our house without stopping. In future years I thought that was rather cruel of them. I believe in a child’s mind; Christmas Eve was the most magical of nights. The only thing that filled your thoughts was Santa being in your house leaving you gifts you had been dreaming about for months, eating the cookies and drinking the milk you left for him, and the remains of a few carrots given to the hard-working reindeer. There were no thoughts of school or chores. No fighting with siblings or time outs for cussing. Just a quiet, warm feeling of anticipation that eventually did result in a deep and happy sleep.

     Like an electric shock, you would awaken and jump out of bed meeting your siblings at the top of the stairs as if all of you were wired the same way. Even though you wanted to skip the stairs altogether, you crept down each one until the living room with its brightly lighted tree came into view. And then, WOOSH, down the remaining steps and into a room full of dreams just waiting for you to claim as your own. You didn’t even notice mom and dad enter the room smiles on their faces as they watched you tear into the carefully wrapped boxes. Screams of joy with each gift, flashbulbs going off as dad tried to memorialize every moment for future viewing. In our house, there was always one child each year that got a gift that was extra special. I was eight I recall when it was my turn for that extra gift that we had wished for all year but were told even Santa couldn’t always bring everything we wanted. My dad told me to have a look in the front room closet and I almost knocked over the tree to get to it.

     Opening the closet door, I saw it. The gift every boy wanted that year, but few would probably get. Hiding in the darkness of the closet was a GI Joe Army tank. It was almost as big as my little sister and without knowing my dad had the remote control it came to life with a sound only too familiar to me as I had been watching commercials all year for it. It rolled out of the closet, headlights piercing the darkness, turret swiveling and the muzzle glowing red. I screamed with delight as dad handed me the remote and I took command of the best present a boy could ever hope for. Sure, the red rider bb gun and the radio flyer wagon were all cool toys, but nothing ever compared to that GI Joe tank.

     It’s sad that we as a nation have put ourselves in a situation where toys of this nature aren’t welcome in many households, that toy guns can be mistaken for real and a child banishing a red rider toy gun could never take it outside in fear of being shot with the real thing by a nervous neighbor. In my neighborhood in the late 1950s after all the presents had been opened and a hearty breakfast eaten kids by the dozens went outside with their new toy guns, knives, tanks, and submachine guns. It was a virtual army of kids choosing sides to play war. Parents took pictures and the innocence of youth was captured for generations to come. Now it’s video games that guarantee kids sitting inside for hours upon end never leaving their rooms until their bladders are about to break. No outside no fresh air no games played with toy guns or bows and rubber plunger arrows.

     I am sixty-nine years old now and my small home is decorated with colored lights and a small tree that usually comes out of storage way too early. I attempt to bake cookies from mom’s recipe box that has been with me for time unknown. I spend hours wrapping gifts for my grandkids knowing they will never know how very bad I am at wrapping. Christmas music fills my home with the classics that I remember filling the house I grew up in. On Christmas Eve alone with my memories, I lay in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, listening for sleigh bells and remembering all that Christmas means to me.

     MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!