Keeper of the Words

the prompt: A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter.

Age yellowed envelopes with three cent postage. The pages inside are unlined, scratched with ink.

So many letters, from 1947 to 1952. An aunt to her niece. The handwriting in a tight, formal style, learned many years before.

The earliest notes passed along news of friends and neighbors. Bits of happenings of other family members shared from other letters that traveled across the country. Filling out the remainder of the pages with descriptions of weather or the latest shopping trip.

And always, “How is the family? The Mister? The Boy? Yourself?, I can’t wait to see you again.”

The later notes remain happy, still full of news. But, “the stairs are harder to climb.” Or, “I’d write more often, but the arthritis…” And, “hope all is well with your family. I can’t wait to see you again.”

Then came the letters in a different hand. This one younger, looser, rounder. “I stopped to see your aunt today. But she didn’t live there anymore. The landlord told us where to find her. Going to see her tomorrow. Hope all is well with your family.”

“I visited your aunt today. She’s doing well, but seems to have trouble remembering… Hope you're feeling better.”

“She can’t be alone anymore, she wanders off. She doesn't like it here… She asks about you. Too bad you can’t come.”

The last letter is dated February 2nd, 1952. My grandmother, Minnie passed away February 20th, 1952. Her Aunt Mina, also known as Minnie, joined her January 28th, 1953.

I have boxes of letters written to my grandmother from many family members. Most are from her aunt. She was named for her Aunt Mina, and there seems to have been a special bond between them.  I wish I could see the letters she wrote in return.  I never knew this grandmother, she was gone before I was born, but the amount of letters and pictures give me little look at who she was.

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...

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.

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.

We Used to Sing

This week's memoir prompt asked you to dig deep to find what, from your childhood, you still know from heart.


"Chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la
Check-a-la romey in a bananika
Bollika, wollika, can't you see
Chickery chick is me?"

"Mairzy doats and dozy doats
And liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too,
Wouldn't you?"

"Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool
Swam three baby fishies and a mama fishie too
"Swim" said the mama fishie, "Swim if you can"
And they swam and they swam right over the dam
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
And they swam and they swam right over the dam"

"I went to the Animal Fair
The birds and the beasts were there
The big baboon by the light of the moon
Was combing his auburn hair"

"Wintee Wee was painted on a saucer,
Song Fong Lo was on a fan.
Song Fong Lo, he came across her
On a dressing stand. 

Wee, please come with me,
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land. 

You step off your saucer, I'll climb off my fan
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land..."

These are songs my grandmother and my mother sang to us as we were growing up. 
We'd sing in the car on long trips. 
We'd start singing while playing cards. 

My grandmother had a very expressive face. During different songs, she'd roll her eyes or grin maniacally. 

My mother's version always had a swing or Big Band edge to them. 

Either way, I remember the words to them all. 

Except the last one. The words defy me to find them all. It's a sad love lost song. For Winty
Wee is made of china. She slips and falls from the dressing stand. 
(we had it wrong. Lyrics found: I posted them on RandomRants. The button is on the right.

Grains of Sand

So this week, we want you to write about sand.


"Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives"

This is the opening line of a soap opera I've never watched. But I love the line.  

I was enchanted with hourglasses when I was young. Watching the sand gently flow from top to bottom. It seemed to take a long time to build below. The grains bouncing on the empty glass.  Yet, as more sand flowed, the faster the top emptied.  A hill mounding, the grains of sand rolling down the sides.  Then suddenly, the last grain falls. Time has run out. 

Life is much like that. The first years, baby steps and potty training and losing baby teeth, barely cover the bottom. The memories bouncing about like a toddler's attention. 

Moving into teens and young adulthood, a hill begins to form. A woman begins grow.   Making choices, climbing uphill, sliding down. Climbing again. 

As the years pass, the sands flow quickly. I've reached that place where the bottom of the hourglass holds more than the top. The sand slipping away at an alarming pace.  I wouldn't want to return to the beginning, but if I could just turn the glass now, gain a little more sand.  A little more life. I still have so much to do. 

What will be left when the last grain falls?  A legacy of accomplishments? Or just a pile of sand?  

Alone

This week's RemembeRED prompt was to write about a time something seemingly terrible happened, but looking back, it brought something wonderful.



"We're pregnant," she whispered. It was only three weeks and she didn't want to spread the news yet. But she was so excited, they were ready to add to their family. 

I smiled with her, asked all the appropriate questions, answered a few she had for me. 

Yet, I could feel little excitement. What felt was loss. My daughter had made that final step away from me. 
No more spontaneous lunches. No more just dropping by randomly. 

I was not ready to be a Grandmother. I wasn't old enough. I had little patience for babies and young children. It's the way I was made. 

As my daughter grew, we had become friends. Now, my friend wouldn't have time for me anymore. 

As she made plans and picked names and furniture and baby clothes, I kept my sadness hidden. 

Delivery came, I was proud of her. She did well. She had a healthy baby boy. 

Time passed, I saw little of her for several weeks. She called for advice now and then. She called to cry her frustrations. 

Then, she needed a babysitter. And I got to spend my first alone time with the baby. The first of many times. 

Now, I have a two year old grandson. A bundle of hugs and energy. Gramma's boy. And he is all boy. Trucks and fire engines. Running and giggling. 

There is a granddaughter now as well. It took some time for me to see the gifts I was receiving. I have two new little people to fill my life.  

And I still have my daughter, my friend. 

Hummingbird

“Give me a memory of the color red. Do not write the word 'red' but use words that engender the color red when you hear them. For example: a ruby, a tomato, fire, blood.




Iridescent in the sunlight. Zipping about on emerald wings. 
Flashing a throat patch of ruby sequins.
When he hovered in shadows, his patch sparkled still, so dark it was almost black.  Like patent leather, the lack of direct light not hampering his glow.
Then a stray sunbeam would strike him, igniting his candy apple calling card.

Drought

The Prompt: "This week, we're giving you a photo to take you back in time."

It's late June.  The spring rains have come and gone. The heat and humidity feel more like late July. The yard is scarred with cracked earth.

The flowers and vegetables, planted with hopes of summer color and fall bounty, are withering. The new fruit trees are trying desperately to force young roots deep enough to find water.

Every day, in the late afternoon, he pulls the hose behind him. He goes from garden to garden, sapling to sapling, soaking the soil.   Leaves that have sagged under the midday sun begin to rise with tentative hope.

He waters the new grass, but most of the precious liquid runs into deep fissures, never touching the young roots.  The only thing that keeps this spot green are old, established shade trees.

As the sun lowers in the sky I join him. We walk each garden together, assessing each plant.  We wish it would rain. We wish the stifling heat would ease. We wish for winter.

Summer Song

This week, your memoir prompt assignment is to think of a sound or a smell the reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory.  Don't forget to incorporate the sound/smell of your choosing!


Yellowed photos, a half century old. I look at the pictures of times long gone.
The memories faded as the photographs by growing, moving, hustling.
Life goes on, gets in the way.

Until summer.

When I hear the song of locusts. Beginning hesitantly, then gaining confidence and volume. Overwhelming the other evening sounds. Tapering off to start again.

Wave after wave.

I close my eyes. And catch a wave.  Fifty years drop away, and clarity returns.

I can smell the heat of summer evening. Feel the humid air that is August holding me in its damp embrace.

My dusty bare feet are rinsed clean by the arrival of dew on the grass. It's cold is a surprise against my toes.

My brothers and I climb about the old front porch. Standing atop the brick bases that hold wooden support posts . Hugging those posts while moths play daredevil with the dim outdoor porch light.

Across the old gravel road, lightning bugs arise in a cloud from the corn field. Winking yellow in the dusk.  Too many to count. But we count anyway.

A memory recalled with each hesitant beginning.
Coming now, in wave after wave.



Hear the song:  summer song

Forgiveless

This week's prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself. Write about a time of forgiveness.
(Thank you all for your comments. I have edited a bit based on your input. Renee)



All bright and shiny. She sparkled with goodness. She cared about what I said. She comforted me when life was being difficult. 

She was a precious treasure, a golden hearted friend. 

But, then?

She stole from me. She stole from my business. My livelihood. My life. 

She stole my faith in people. And she did it with smiles and sweet talk. 
She manipulated my feelings by confessing to minor mistakes. 

I had trusted her. She became my liaison with the other employees.  They loved her, too. They told her their secrets. 

She took advantage of their trust. She knew things they didn't want told. They closed their eyes to her "indiscretions".

When she was caught?  She was angry. Not apologetic, not ashamed. Just angry, at the person who caught her.  Angry at me, because she couldn't make me believe her lies anymore.   

Now, I am angry at myself.   That I didn't see that the bright and sparkly treasure was base metal underneath. Angry at myself that I cannot forgive her. 

Flavors of Summer's Past

This week's prompt asked us to describe your favorite fruit or vegetable: the first time you tasted it, where it came from, where you were, what memories it brings.

Hot summer days. My brothers and I spent them outside. The half acre field behind the house was our haven. Overgrown, our paths through it well defined. 

Around the house were several trees. All perfect for climbing. 

We ate our first fruits there. 

The old cherry trees, with sappy branches. If we could beat the birds, we feasted on bright red cherries. So tart they made us shudder. 

Wadded up in the weeds were black raspberry patches. We ate them sun-warmed. The berries sweet and smooth flavored, leaving our fingers purple stained from grabbing. 

The old pear tree was stingy. Only producing every other year. Soft yellow-brown fruit. The sugary juices rolling from our chins as we ate. The cores dropped where we finished. 

The old concord grapevine. Almost wild. The skins were eaten first, slightly bitter. Then the meat of the grape. A full, sweet, lightly tart flavor that drew us back for more. 

And on the side of the road behind the field, one neighbor had strawberries. As big as our hands. I think we ate more than he harvested. But he never said a word. 

I miss those days. Eating the gifts of nature at our leisure. The flavors still stamped in my memory. 

I Hear People

This is written for
Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.

Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.


People tell me things. 
Things they don't tell their mothers. Or husbands. 
They say hello. There is small talk. 
Then, they tell me about their problem. Or the fight with a spouse/parent/child. 
They tell me about the bad thing they did a long time ago. 
They tell me about their wildest dream. 

I don't ask them about the secrets in their lives. But, they think I need to know. They think I can help. 

I can barely help myself most days. 
 However, if I know a resource, a phone number, or if I can say the right thing?  I do that. 

Sometimes, I have to be careful of my reaction. I don't want to hurt feelings. Or seem judgmental. 

Sometimes it seems like a strange curse. Bestowed at birth for some ancient sin I committed. 

And then...


My daughter told me a few months ago about a conversation she had with a casual acquaintance. About his problems at home. With his wife. With his kids. With his job. 

I told her "It's a gift"

Evolution of a Room

This is for The Red Dress Club.


The prompt: Think of a room from your past.  It can be any type of room at all.


This room. With fancy pocket doors. Just off the living room. 
It may have been considered a parlor once. Before my grandmother died. Before I was born. 

When I was growing up.  This was my grandfather's room. It smelled of old man and pipe tobacco. 
He put eye bolts through the beautiful pocket doors. So he could lock himself in at night. And lock everyone out when he left. It was an empty room after he died. 

 My brother moved back home after a serious illness. The room became his. Filled with computer and books and cigarette smoke. The doors were no longer locked. But often closed. 
He finally moved into his own home. 

Then my mother chose to make it her room. With her bed and television. The curtain closed.  It took on the smell of alcohol and old woman and urine. She broke her hip in  this room. She chose to stop living. After she died, the room was closed. 

For a while. 

Now. This room has a new purpose. The pocket doors are open. The eye bolts removed.  There is an entertainment center. There are chairs. And people. And pets. 
The curtains are open. Light pours in and out. It still smells of cigarette smoke. And pets. And in the spring, when the windows are open, fresh air.

This is where my husband and I talk. Read. Visit with family. 
Be. 

We don't call it a parlor now. 
We call it a Family Room.