Randomness

Pt. 5 of the Cammie Orton Story

  Part 5 “Come on Maddy,” I tugged on her arm. “What are you doing?” She stood glued to the ground staring at the Orton’s back door. “Did you not see the backpack right there?” Maddy nodded toward the porch as she reluctantly began following me up the driveway. “Yes, I saw it.” “I think she’s planning on leaving, that’s what I think. We need to call Kathy immediately.” She shifted into her speed walk mode, unable to get a foot through her own front door fast enough. I let myself in behind Maddy, heading straight for her kitchen and a cup of coffee I knew was waiting in the thermos. Maddy came in with her cell phone and placed the call to Kathy Orton, a noticeable unsteadiness in her voice. I got the cream out of the refrigerator and put it on the table with a spoon. “Sit down Maddy,” I said and nodded toward her chair. She took a seat with a heavy sigh as she waited for an answer while I poured her a cup and stirred in a little cream. “Kathy? Hi! It’s Magdalene at the beach.” Magdalene dove right in, telling Kathy all about the…

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Pt. 4 of the Cammie Orton Story

Part 4 About a week later Magdalene was back and she and I planned an early morning walk.  “Hey Magdalene,” I called and waved as I approached her. “It’s good to have you back. How was the trip?” “Good,” she flashed her famous impish grin, “I can’t get enough of those grandkids.” We hugged then headed down the beach toward the cove, our customary walk. “I know what you mean. Tell me what’s new with them.” As much as I wanted to dive right in on the whole Orton mystery, I needed to let Magdalene fill me in on the little ones, all of whom I’ve met over the years. “They’re not so little anymore, Maddy,” I said when she finished. “You need to talk someone into having another baby.” She laughed. “So, tell me what’s been going on since I’ve been gone. Anything new with you sand fleas?” She nodded down the beach toward the row of beach homes and cabins. “Not really. But I think there’s something new with you hill people.” I looked up at the houses on the hill and nodded. “Oh, what’s that?” “Have you ever met Cammie Orton? She’s apparently a niece of the…

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Pt. 3 of the Cammie Orton Story

Part 3 In the following weeks, Cammie and I ran into each other regularly, usually walking the beach early in the mornings. She offered nothing more than a weak smile and a wave, so it came as quite a surprise when one morning she stood on the beach in front of my house and called my name. “Hey,” I stepped outside and waved from my deck, “good morning.” “Hi,” she looked down at her feet then back up at me, shading her eyes with one hand, the other fluttering about as if it had nowhere to land. “I hate to bother you, but you wouldn’t happen to have an extra cup of coffee would you?” I was so shocked, I was slow to reply. “Sorry,” she stammered looking back down at her feet, “I shouldn’t…” “Of course I do,” I interrupted. “Come up. A little company this morning would be nice.” The dogs were wagging their tails, excited by the idea of more hands to pet them, I’m sure. Cammie climbed the stairs, opened the gate at the landing then continued up to my deck. The t-shirt she was wearing had seen better days. It was sky blue by default,…

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Pt. 2 of the Cammie Orton Story

Pt. 2 Not long after our first encounter I spotted her about a block down the beach from my house, wading out into the water with a rake and a bucket. Crabs, I thought. It’s an easy was to catch crabs if you’re without a boat and/or pots. Yet there was something odd about the whole scene. I snatched the binoculars from the basket on the deck table and quickly discovered what was troubling me. She was in the same clothes she’d worn the first time we’d run into each other; the billowy long white pants, tank top, old slip on sneakers. Now the pants appeared to drag her down as they became soaked up to her thighs. She seemed to struggle while putting one foot in front of the other, sternly concentrating on the sandy bottom. I wondered why she hadn’t put on shorts or a bathing suit if she’d planned to wade so far into the bay. It wasn’t long before she had a crab in her rake, pinchers snapping as it struggled to get free. The bucket was under the teeth of the rake in a second as she shook the crustacean off. Then she turned towards…

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The Story of Cammie Orton (again)

For those of you who have already read this story’s beginning, I apologize. Summer got in the way of writing, so I’m starting over. It’s been so long, you probably can’t remember it anyway! My blog postings over the next few weeks will be an ongoing story I’ve wanted to share for quite some time. It occurred to me the other day that I could do it as long as I break it up into as many blogs as it takes to relay the whole adventure without wearing my readers out in any one sitting. So, here goes…I hope you enjoy it. The Story of Cammie Orton  Cammie Orton was the only name I ever knew her by although it’s doubtful that was really her name. We first met one day about five years ago in the early morning while I was walking the beach with my dogs and she was combing for treasures, tossing shells and beach glass into an old worn duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She was tiny in stature; probably just under five feet tall, maybe ninety pounds. Her hair was bigger than life, gold streaks intertwined with mahogany and nearly reaching her waist. Her…

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Randomness

The Story of Cammie Orton

 My blog postings over the next few weeks will be an ongoing story I’ve wanted to share for quite some time. It occurred to me the other day that I could do it as long as I break it up into as many blogs as it takes to relay the whole adventure without wearing my readers out in any one sitting. So, here goes…I hope you enjoy it. The Story of Cammie Orton Cammie Orton was the only name I ever knew her by although it’s doubtful that was really her name. We first met one day about five years ago in the early morning while I was walking the beach with my dogs and she was combing for treasures, tossing shells and beach glass into an old worn duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She was tiny in stature; probably just under five feet tall, maybe ninety pounds. Her hair was bigger than life, gold streaks intertwined with mahogany and nearly reaching her waist. Her wild curls dwarfed perfect features. I was instantly struck by her appearance. She had the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen and lashes thick as feathers. Her smile made me feel as though we were…

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Beauty in a Bottle

After years of insisting that one mascara is not just as good as any other, my daughter has won the debate. We conducted a test and the high end mascara’s costing three times the average price are indeed, much better. Now that my lifetime search for the best products out there is down by one, I’m excited to continue on. There is an infinite array of beauty products available these days, each touted to be the product that will change my life. I have fallen hard and fast for so many, like a flash flood careening down a mountain side, taking out trees and boulders and millions of pounds of earth as it goes. These products have promised a newness in me that compares only with starting over from birth. As that isn’t going to happen, I’ve opted to believe in serums formulated to ease the wrinkles from the creases around my eyes, from the corners of my mouth, from the crevices in my forehead. I have been convinced over and over again that this product, this one and only product, this new discovery, after centuries of laboratory research, will be the one truly offering the fountain of youth. All…

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Unrealistic Expectations or Just Positive Thinking?

It has been brought to my attention that perhaps my expectations in life are a bit unrealistic. I’m not sure this is true.  I see nothing wrong with continuing to set high goals for myself regardless of…well… anything. Yes, it’s true, the aging process can slow us down a bit and I agree that no one has the endurance we had when we were twelve. I mean, have you tried to jump rope recently? If memory serves me correctly, my childhood friends and I would jump rope until the endless counting bored us to death, at which point we’d move on to hula hoop. That would last until our mothers called us in for lunch and still no one had let the hoop hit the floor. I took up the jump rope last winter. One hundred skips is like running half a marathon. And then I found some old hula hoops while cleaning out the shed and discovered it’s nothing like riding a bike; just because you learned how once upon a time, doesn’t mean you’ll never forget. Yet I’m going to work on it. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain is the correct placement of the hoop…

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Rose Garden

It’s been said, we were never promised a rose garden.  I’ve heard it my whole life.  Every time the going got tough and life was not in my favor, Mother would say, “Well, Mary Ann, no one ever promised you a rose garden.” No, I would think, no rose garden. But neither did I expect to be thrown into the cacti quite so often either. Life can be prickly to say the least. As I see it, the trick for survival is making sure to check words before they fly out of our mouths and think carefully before acting. If we slow down a bit and consider pro’s and con’s before anything is said or done, we will cruise on through to the good times regardless of the rocky conditions getting there. Now, as we all know, the thing about the good times is they’re not here forever. For some reason, there is no sailing through without the current eventually changing course and the wind whipping our sails in the opposite direction. Not much we can do about it but hang on and pay attention. Life will change directions again; we just need to do the best job we can…

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You will never hear the end of it!

“I’m just so glad it was you who let the dogs out,” my husband said as we searched frantically for our run-away puppies. “If it had been me, I’d never hear the end of it!” Oh, how right he was; and may I just say – truer words have yet to be spoken. My parents bought my younger sister a car for high school graduation. When I graduated, I received half of a ten speed bike. Yes, I had to pay for the other half. They have never heard the end of it. Once, I forgot to put bananas in the banana cream pies. The subject of pies cannot be brought up without every family member reminding me of the banana-less, banana cream pies I made as they drove me crazy one Thanksgiving Holiday. I will never hear the end of it. Another time, I spoke in whale after a few glasses of wine. My kids have since requested whale talk from their mother every inappropriate chance they get. It’s guaranteed; I will never hear the end of it. “If I have to rescue you one more time,” my neighbor complained, “I swear you will never hear the end of…

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