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The Story of Betsy and Grandmother Graham Pt. 3

Pt. 3 That evening, tucked snugly into the single bed in her father’s old bedroom, Betsy’s mind traveled through the events of the day. She could hardly believe how much she and her grandmother had accomplished in such a short time. Granted, they hadn’t taken a break or slowed down even for a minute since the time Betsy had walked in the door. Yet, still, it was a great accomplishment. Betsy thought about the biscuits, the mouth watering heavenly biscuits they’d worked so hard on and wondered where they were going. The breads had been consumed in record time by the patrons of Angela’s Kitchen and Betsy had swelled with pride over the part she had had in providing them. She and her grandmother stayed until the last person finished their meal, then started the process of cleaning all the pots and pans and running the institutional dishwasher with plates, coffee cups, and cutlery. There had never been a day in her life where she’d imagined tackling such an ominous job and enjoying it. And the baking! Betsy could hardly believe what she’d been a part of; the creative process of bringing dough to life and dressing it up in…

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The Story of Betsy and Grandmother Graham, Pt. 2

“Yeast? I don’t know what that is,” Betsy knit her brow. She’d finally figured out the tablespoon, the teaspoon, a pinch, a dash, a cube, the cups, and now this. Yeast. “Oh my word, girl. Yeast! It’s the magic that raises the bread, puts the puff in pastry.” Betsy’s grandmother shook her head. “Raising you under a rock they are. Raising you under a rock.” Betsy wanted to tell the old woman her neck was bound to be sore from shaking her head all day as she displayed her dismay and disgust. Betsy, it seemed, was not being raised by her parents at all. She was being ruined by them. “May God forgive them, she doesn’t even know yeast,” her grandmother muttered. “Well, girl, you’re going to be amazed by yeast. We’re going to bake cinnamon and raisin bread. Breakfast bread, you see. A dozen loaves.” Her grandmother pulled a small jar from the cupboard, a food thermometer, and a mixing bowl from the sideboard. “Here now, I’ll show you how to warm the yeast. It’s alive you know, and a bit temperamental. If it’s too hot, the yeast dies. If it’s too cold, it won’t activate. That’s why we…

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The Story of Betsy and Grandmother Graham

The Story of Betsy and Grandma Graham Betsy Graham stood in the foyer of her grandmother’s home. She clutched her suitcase to her side as though it might be snatched away by the unfamiliar old woman standing in front of her. The woman wore a faded house dress, apron, and shoes like black blocks. Betsy tried to remember anything, one single thing about her, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were drawn to the spikes of gray hair sticking out all over her grandmother’s head. Betsy’s own head was killing her. Her mother had insisted she brush her hair straight back and secure it in a severely tight bun. Apparently, Grandma Graham thought all girls should wear their hair like boys; short, manageable. If this woman, her grandmother, was as awful as she’d been led to believe, why was she here? Her memory couldn’t conjure up a single nice thing said about Grandmother Graham. Yet her parents had shipped her off for the Christmas holiday, assuring her that Grandma wasn’t bad at all. She’d misunderstood. Suddenly, they had all kinds of nice things to say about the woman who raised Betsy’s father like some kind of slave driver or army sergeant.…

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So Sorry!

I’m sorry I don’t have a blog ready this week. Life is in the way again! Please stay tuned – next week begins a new tall tale! Thank you so much!                 1

Randomness

Buddy Wilson

Buddy Wilson’s eyes were stuck. He wanted to snap out of his trance, to stop staring. After all, there wasn’t a minute to waste. Move it or lose it, he told himself while his burning tired eyes followed the cow’s hind end over the hill. It was out of sight now and still his eyes wouldn’t move any more than his feet would. The mud sucked his boots down a little further. The rain was constant. Not a nice light rain, not even a downpour. No, this was pelting rain: hard, loud, pounding. It was a punishment and it wouldn’t let up. His mind was lost in the banging on the metal roof of the barn just as his eyes were fixed on the end of the hill. If he didn’t go after her now, right now, she would probably drown. Just slide down the bank with the sliding earth, land in the mouth of the tumultuous monster the river had become, and be swallowed up. He couldn’t afford to lose another cow, yet he couldn’t get his eyes to move or his mind to give up on the rhythmic beating of the pelting rain. It had been ten days…

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The Flint Riggins Story, Part 7 (The End

Pt. 7 I stood up, feeling as though I needed to go back to the lake. “Died? Mozer died? How?” “All I know is he apparently died in his sleep. Flint called this morning. He said he normally goes out and shovels for people first thing in the day and then goes back to Mozer’s around noon to have lunch with him. Mozer’s bedroom door was still closed, so Flint peeked in on him. He was in his bed. Gone.” “Oh my gosh!” I sat back down and leaned forward in the chair. “I guess it’s a really good thing the lake house is pretty much ready for Flint then. He’s probably got to get moved out right away.” “That’s what I was thinking,” Mom said. “I don’t know anything about Mozer’s family. I’ve don’t know if he has kids or anything. He’s always been such an onry old cuss, I’ve kept my distance.” “Yeah, he has,” I agreed. “Do you want me to go to the lake with you and talk to him? He might need a place to stay right away, like tonight.” “Thank you Vicki, but you need to get yourself settled in your new place. I’ve…

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The Flint Riggins Story, Pt. 6

Part 6 “So how was your Christmas, anyway?” Sheri asked. We’d just pulled up in front of the only café open through the winter in our neck of the woods. “It was fine, I guess,” I whined. “I mean, Flint hardly says a word unless I’m out of the room and then I hear him talking to Ryan and Mom.” We got out of the car and headed for the door. The aroma of deep fried everything assaulted us. “We should have stayed home,” Sheri said. “This food will kill us.” Opening the door was kind of like staying home. The tables were occupied with friends and neighbors, all chatty and happy to see us. “The taco salad isn’t so unhealthy, and it’s good. That’s what I usually get here.” We picked a table and shrugged out of our jackets. “I’m dying for coffee,” I looked around for Rita, the owner and only waitress. She was coming up behind me with a fresh pot. “Hi gals,” she smiled as she poured. “Want menus or do you know what you want?” “Guess I’ll have my usual,” I said. “I’ll try one too,” said Sheri. “Joe!” Rita shouted at the cook. “Two…

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The Flint Riggins Story, Part 5

Pt. 5 Ryan stoked the fire. Although it was nearly midnight, the three of us were wide awake. “Well,” I sighed, “Christmas is next week. Are you inviting him to town? What’s the plan for that?” I could just imagine the whole extended family gathered around the huge dining table at my parent’s house when the introduction is made. “By the way,” Mom would smile and nod toward Flint. “This is Ryan and Vicki’s half brother by another mother.” I chuckled to myself. “I would like to have a quiet Christmas here,” Mom said. “Just the three of us and Flint. We don’t have to host the whole gang every year and under the circumstances, I think it would be nice for you to get to know him a bit.” I hadn’t meant to grown out loud. “Vicki, you need to change your attitude. It’s not his fault. He was fourteen when his poor excuse for a mother died, your dad abandoned him from the start, his foster homes were nightmares, and he’s been damaged serving his country. The addition will be totally private and give him a safe warm home, something he’s never had and something he certainly deserves.”…

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The Flint Riggins Story, Part 4

  Pt. 4 Noon Saturday arrived with my brother Ryan at my front door delivering Mom. She’d packed enough for a month which got me wondering if that was exactly her plan. Stay long enough to get me straightened out, living again, fixing myself up! I knew she worried about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, but I didn’t. I simply didn’t care. Peace and semi-solitude suited me well. They removed boots, hats, gloves, scarves, and parkas, burying the coat rack, then joined me in the kitchen for lunch. I’d offered to make my famous butternut squash soup and toasted cheese sandwiches so we could visit before Ryan headed back into town. I also wanted to find out what he’d been doing out at the lake recently without coming to see me. Mom got three coffee cups from the cupboard and filled them up, taking cream out of the refrigerator and setting it on the table. I made the sandwiches and Ryan filled the soup bowls. When everything was ready, we took our seats at the old kitchen table and smiled at each other. It was all so familiar- good memories surrounded us. “This…

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The Flint Riggins Story Pt. 3

Pt. 3 A week later, two of my childhood buddies and fellow lake residents, Norma and Sheri, joined me in my cozy living room for a girls night in. The fire I’d built in the big rock fireplace crackled and danced while we made ourselves comfortable in the old leather furniture, soft as butter from years of wear. I set out some snacks and poured everyone a glass of red wine and we toasted the three of us. “To hanging out in no-man’s-land all winter long,” Sheri lifted her glass and Norma and I joined in with a soft clinking together of my grandmother’s crystal goblets. “Hey,” Sheri began as she settled into the big leather chair, “I saw Ryan out here again the other day. What’s he been up to?” “Ryan? My brother, Ryan?” “The one and only,” Sheri nodded. “I have no idea.” I felt myself squint.  “What do you mean ‘again’? I didn’t know he was here at all.” “Yeah, he was talking to Flint a couple of days ago. I figured he was making arrangements to have Flint shovel for you, or something like that, but it is strange he didn’t come and say hello.” “He…

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