The old man nearly coughed up a lung hauling the twelve foot dingy down the beach to the water, dragging it over piles of driftwood, gravel, and rocks. His hip-waders had sprung a leak somewhere along the way, and water was slowly seeping in, soaking his toes on the right foot. He’d forgotten to put a plastic bag over his foot before putting on the boots as he normally did. He’d been forgetting a lot of things lately, he noticed. If she were still around, she would never let him out the door on a day like this, let alone anywhere near the water. The waves crashed against his legs as he struggled to shove the little boat up and over them, scrambling at the same time, to climb in. He managed to slam into one of the oars, popping it out of the oar lock and sending it overboard. “Shit,” Matthias mumbled. “Won’t due having only one of the bastards.” Using the other oar, he paddled furiously toward the one escaping. Unfortunately, the current was strong and pulled the little boat south even though the waves were carrying the desperately needed oar toward the north. Matthias fought his frustration…
A Dreadful Woman
Elizabeth didn’t really know how she came to have dreadlocks. Something strange happened right after the celebration of her sixtieth birthday. It had been a wonderful day, all her family and friends gathered together in the backyard. The flowers were in full bloom, the sun was shining and the air was warm. Her son Joe had salmon on the grill and her daughters, Jane and Susan, had made salads and roasted red potatoes and baked too many deserts. It was a feast and a party, everyone happy, laughing and dancing, and…well, you get the picture. Yet somehow that too-good-to-be-true day came to an end and there she was, left with the most desperate feeling, as though she’d suddenly realized she’d forgotten the most important thing in her life, and just now discovered it had been forgotten for as far back as she could remember! The anxiety was unbearable. What was it, she wondered? Two years later, Elizabeth is celebrating her sixty second birthday. This time the party is limited to family only, strained smiles and arched brows and heavy sighs aimed in her direction. Her gifts consist of beauty salon certificates; spa treatments, mani/pedis, and a day at a Gene…
No Doubt
Feet tapping, tapping, tapping. Shuffle, shuffle forward, shuffle backward, cross the ankles, uncross the ankles then tap, tap, shuffle forward, shuffle back, tap, tap, tap. The legs cross, foot pulls up to the knee, foot back on the floor. The legs uncross, cross, uncross, the feet hit the floor and she stands up to walk in place, dance in place. Can’t go far tethered to the blood pressure machine and the I.V. line like she is. She stretches and groans and lays back then sits up and stretches then taps and taps and taps. It’s like watching a cat on a hot tin roof. Her eyes close, open, dart around the room. What is happening? This is enough to drive her right out of her mind. She is tired, so tired yet her legs can’t stop and her feet can’t stop and the drugs won’t stop. Her insides are cold yet her outsides sweat. She’s wired. The port in her chest makes it easy for the drugs to flow straight into her system, to travel straight to the bad cells and attack. That’s the point of all this, right? There is a war raging inside her body and our minds…
The Story of Betsy and Grandmother Graham, Pt. 4
Pt. 4 The next ten days of Betsy’s Christmas Break were spent doing little other than cooking, baking, and delivering. They made complete meals and delivered them to individual families in need, and deserts to elderly folks, much like her grandmother, living alone. They spent an entire day baking and decorating sugar cookies then delivered platefuls to everyone in her grandmother’s life with children and grandchildren. Not a day ended without Betsy’s heart full of pride and joy. She lay snuggled in at night embracing a new freedom, a kind of contentment she’d never known. Smiling faces and gratitude shown by those they’d visited flooded her heart, and Betsy felt the time spent with Grandmother Graham had opened doors wide, welcoming a fresh awareness of a rich life outside Betsy’s limited world. Her cell phone had been abandoned and forgotten. It was a surprise to discover she hadn’t missed the wasted hours spent doing nothing with the phone attached to her hand like an appendage she couldn’t leave alone. Thoughts of her parents marched in and out of her mind, not like soldiers warring, but simply as a line of little black ants moving purposefully through her life, yet without…
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…
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…
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.…
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
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…
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…