Crashing

Today we’re trying a little something different. Are you ready? Your word is below. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up.

Crash.

I felt it in my stomach.

The two younger cats were showing undue curiosity about the space on the other side of my end table.  I got up to see what had grabbed their attention.

My oldest, Cat, Herself, Mistress of All She Surveys, was lying on the floor on her side.  Her front legs outstretched, claws scrabbling for purchase on the wood floor.  Her hind legs drawn against her body, not moving.

I touched her gently, she made no sound, didn't acknowledge my presence.  I carefully picked her up, something she despises.  I sat with her in my lap.  She finally looked at me, stood and leapt lightly to the floor again.

She stayed on her feet, though her backside swayed  with each step.  I followed her to the next room.  She jumped to the kitchen counter easily.

Crisis averted?

I don't know.  She is fifteen years old.  I know our time left is short.

I'll be watching her closely.

The next crash will be the breaking of my heart...

One Meal

This week, we’ve asked you to share with us a special recipe. But, we’ve asked you to do more than just list out ingredients.

We challenged you to take us back…to take us into your memory, in 500 words or less.


My mother shuffled out to the kitchen as I was cutting slits in the hot dogs. After she had broken her hip, she relied on the fancy walker we'd gotten for her rehab. She could walk without it, but she didn't want to.

She asked what I was making.  As I folded the slices of cheese into the slits I'd cut, I told her.  Her eyes lit up.  It wasn't often I could convince her to eat enough.  She watched as I opened the tube of crescent roll dough and wrapped the cheese filled hot dogs up.

"Pigs in a blanket!  I haven't had those for so long.  That sounds wonderful!"

We'd had them often when I was growing up.  They were easy and inexpensive.  With five kids, it was a good call for working parents.

I made them when my daughter was growing up.  They were easy and inexpensive.  I worked a lot of nights, it was a good call.

I think Mom ate three or four of them that night.  She ate the leftovers for lunch the next day.

During the year we lived with her, before she died, I believe this was the meal she enjoyed most.

It was a good call.

Hollow-een

This week we asked you to take us back to a memorable Halloween costume, to show it to us and draw us into your emotions and memories in 400 words

Halloween was not a special holiday at our house.  More of an excuse to stay out past dark, because you could do that in the 60's without fear. And the candy of course, it was all about the candy.

Our costumes were not memorable, store bought in a hurry the day before. Plastic, face covering masks with a tiny mouth slit to suck air through, and eye holes that may be where your own eyes were. Just the act of walking caused a build up of sweat.  That, with the humidity of breathing, made them almost unbearable.

The flimsy, I'm sure not fire-proof, costumes didn't always last the night.  The seam stitching gave out at the least tug of arm or leg

We were five kids, but I don't think more than three of us at a time were of an age to go trick-or-treat together.  By the time my sisters were old enough, I was staying home passing out the candy.

That has always been my favorite part over the years.  Greeting little and not so little kids and drop candy bars in bags or pails or pillow cases.  Even when my daughter was growing up, I'd rather stay home and hand out goodies.  Her step-sister took her a couple times.  Most often she was at her grandparents' house.  Grandma made sure she got plenty of treats.

My husband and I have moved back to that house.  It sits back a long driveway from a busy street.  The neighborhood behind it is separated by a half acre field.  As long as I can remember it's been the scary house in the neighborhood. Especially on Halloween night.  Just because it's big and old.  And for years, the only light was from my Mother's bedroom, at the front, facing the busy street.  All other windows were dark.

The house is alive with light now. 
Yet.
There are no little pirates or princesses at the door. 
I buy the candy every year. 
Just in case.










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Falling Leaves

For you, what does autumn evoke?
Show us in 300 words or less



I'm in love with the fall. Cool mornings followed by warm afternoons.  The air smells clean, freshly laundered. Scented with hints of burnt leaf.  As much as I love that smell, we don't burn leaves here.

Those unburned leaves are colored in the shades of the fire from which they were spared. They  rush across the lawn, blown by playful gusts. Some take flight, reaching for the branches they recently left.  Some are content to somersault across the fading grass.

They migrate from our yard to the neighbor's, only to return in a day or so.  They'll pile themselves around the flowers and shrubs.  Protecting the tender roots from winter's cold.

 I hear them crackling whispers to each other of summer past. Before the rains pin them to the gardens. Before the colors of glory fade to brown. Before winter's snow buries them with icy weight.  They blanket the sleeping plants singing lullabies of spring.

In the Pocket

This week Galit asked you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.

But don’t tell us what it is, conjure it. In 100 words.

Fourteen pounds in my hand. 
One step for balance. 
Two, my arm pushes out, weight and gravity pulling it down. 
Three, it swings back in pendulum motion.
Four, my arm swings forward again.  
Five, my feet, arm, and ball at the line.  
My thumb leaves the hole drilled to fit. 
As the ball rolls from hand, my fingers create rotation. 
It hits the lane, sliding through the oil, then grips, and  begins to roll.  
At the end of the oil, it turns and accelerates, striking the rack between the headpin and the three-pin.  
Boom! 
Strike. 

Three Textures

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.




Cat; Herself; Mistress of All She Surveys, at 14, the eldest of the three.  Steps into my lap with feather lightness.  She settles in before I know she's there. 
Black fur with bits of white now, smooth, sleek, and silky under my fingers.  As I move along her back, I feel the bones that have begun to protrude at her hips, showing her age. 
She rolls to her back in the crook of my arm for a belly rub.  Her purrs vibrate with pleasure, warm dampness against my arm where she's has drooled a bit.

Sir, my pretty boy, long haired silver tabby. Fifteen pounds of muscle and fur.  Fur so soft my work worn hands can hardly feel it.  I use my face to feel the cottony texture, he sniffs at my mouth, perhaps to make sure of who I am. 
His step is not light, he rocks the chair we share.  He revels in the scratching of my fingers.  Bites ever so gently with saber fangs when I rub his belly. 
Then he drops onto my lap.  He hides his head under his paws and heaves a sigh.  Soon he sleeps, his deep rumble of purrs dissolve into snores.  His weight puts my legs to sleep as well.  The warmth of his body transfers to my thighs as he gets heavier in sleep.

Wee, youngest, smallest, and most wary of the three.  Also black, but a deeper shade.  Fur that is full and coarser than the others. I bury my fingers in it, feeling the coolness of the fur against the heat of her small body.
She climbs full clawed to my lap.  Or leaps from somewhere, her speed and gravity making up for her lack of weight.  Insistent that her presence be known.  With needled feet she kneads my lap to her specifications. 
She sits tense, a bundle of action, looking for the next target.  She purrs and mews, stands to tap my face. Soft paws punctuated with claws.  Her nose to my nose, her sandpaper tongue scrapes my skin. 
As sudden and violently as she appears, so does she depart.  A parting mew, a loud thump as she uses speed and gravity once again.

The three takes their turns.  When one leaves, another soon takes their place.  I know each one with my eyes closed.  Their presence brings comfort, warmth, and the unconditional love that pets have in abundance. 




My cats grace both of my blogs.  Cat is on the button for Random Rants.  Sir and Wee share space on the button of this blog, Elsetime & Otherwhen.

I Miss...

This week’s prompt is to use this image for your inspiration and begin your post with those words…”I miss my childhood…”





I miss my childhood.
I miss sultry summer days with nothing to do but soak up sunshine and fresh air.
I miss laughing hysterically for no reason.
I miss sleeping soundly all night and waking up with energy to spare.
I miss snow days that meant staying indoors snug in a blanket.
I miss bumps and bruises that went away overnight.
I miss when tomorrow seemed to take forever to come.

I miss whole days spent playing outdoors with no worry of being abducted.
I miss not knowing how hard it is to choose between wants and needs.
I miss being clueless about hunger and poverty.
I miss never hearing about the terrible things people do to each other.

I miss the ignorance of innocence.

Gramma and Grandmother

Her name was Sylvia, she was my Mother's mother. I called her Gramma. We had a close bond while I was growing up. Many summers were spent with her, and Grampa, in their home in Tennessee.

Her name was Minne, she was my Father's mother. I never knew her. She died before my Father married. All I have are a few memories he shared.

Summers with Gramma always involved activities. She taught me to crochet one summer. That is a love I still have, a love for yarn. With the simple action of passing down a hobby, she started me on a life long love of fiber arts in all their forms.

I never got to know this other Grandmother. I grew up in the house she and my Grandfather finally settled into four years before her passing. Bits of her surrounded me there. Her rocking chair. Her cookbooks and kithchen utensils. I baked my first brownies with a recipe from one of her books.

My Gramma was always there when I needed her. After Grampa's retirement, they moved back to
Indiana. No more ten hour trips to Tennessee, she was practically around the corner. When I became pregnant at twenty-seven, and was looking at single motherhood, she offered which ever form of assistance I wanted. After I assured her I wanted this child, we dug out the crochet patterns for baby clothes. Giggling over the cute outfits we were going to make.

My other Grandmother didn't get the chance to meet her great-granddaughter. But that child also spent much time in the house where my Grandmother spent the end of her life. She baked her first cake from one of the old cookbooks.

My Gramma was full of fun and mischief. I still miss her, she passed away twenty three years ago. Looking back now, I realize how much more I could have learned.

I have moved back into the house that was my Grandmother's home. She left behind much more than a rocking chair and cookbooks. I have her collection of postcards, dated from the early 1900's until her death in 1952. I have books she read. I have letters from her family. I realize now how much more I can learn.
*****

(This post covered two different prompts this week. WriteOnEdge and MamKat's Writers' Workshop.)


This week we asked you to write about a person from your past…but the story had to include YOU.

We gave you the starting point of “His/her name was _______, and looking back now, I realize….”



the prompt I chose was to write my grandmother's story. I wrote little snippets of who they were

Re-Assembled

Your assignment this week was to write about a time when you knew something in your life had to change drastically. We asked you to describe the moment you realized you had to make the decision and to use this as an opportunity to work on “show not tell.”


I wasn't me anymore.  I had shed my likes, my humor, my friends.  I wriggled out of the skin I'd worn all my life to please someone else.  I adjusted my personality to fit what I thought was required.  I lost the most important pieces of myself.  The things that made me me.

When all of that wasn't enough, when the verbal and emotional attacks finally became physical, I knew things needed to change.  The necessary steps were taken, the counseling, the learning on both parts to understand the power and control monster.  Change began to happen. 

It has been an excruciatingly slow process.  Finding the bits and pieces of me that were cast aside, or shelved. Trying to put them back together the way they came out.  The new me, isn't the same as the original.  There are hairline cracks in the surface where some parts were glued in hastily.  A few chips here and there where all the shards weren't found.  Some pieces still linger on shelves, waiting for another step, a better time to be added.

Things have changed, but the scars are still visible.  The trust was broken, I think it will take a bit longer to finish the reassembly.