A Little Night Music

Like many other small towns, this week ours played host to an evening of dreams.  

Painting Progress and Author Angst

Day One

Day Three

As promised, here’s an update on the seascape my Resident Artist is working on. 

Norman and Edward

As members of the privileged class – aka retired – we were able to jump in the car on Monday and tool off to the Berkshires.

Renaissance Retirement

Renaissance

 : the period of European history between the 14th and 17th centuries when there was a new interest in science and in ancient art and literature especially in Italy

: a situation or period of time when there is a new interest in something

 that has not been popular in a long time

: a period of new growth or activity   -- Bingo! That's the one!

Summer Solstice

We've made it. 

After a May that was 
so un-Maylike 
most of us would just as well forget about it, the first day of summer is upon us.

The Cookie Jar

The grandboys swept through like locusts this past weekend, laying waste to any food in their path.

Fathers' Day

      So we began our Father's Day weekend by hanging the Jolly Roger as a warning signal to the neighborhood that the grandkids had arrived. 

Dreams and Dust

Here's my latest contribution to 

 Five Sentence Fiction. 

This week's prompt is          
          Wishes

You'll find other entries at:

Lillie McFerrin Writes

The paper was thin, not particularly high quality, and the printing upon it washed out; you’d think it would look more, what?, important?

She held it, heart racing, disbelieving, in her hand : 10 - 40 - 63 – 64 – 69

She looked again at the sparkly blond on television with the basket of numbered balls and the five that had been selected and rowed up.

Yes, there they were:  10 - 40 – 63 - 64 – 60.

Maylene crumpled the paper into the pocket of her ripped jeans and turned back to dusting Mrs. Shepherd’s highboy.

Sending Our Regrets

     When we were small and guilty of some transgression, maybe bopping our brother in back of the head, causing him to snort milk from his bowl of cereal out of his nose, our parents would look sternly into our eyes and give the standard order, "Say you're sorry."

        We weren't sorry at all. In fact, we were glad. Who knew our impulse of the moment could produce such rich results? But we'd look at our feet and mumble, "Sorry!"

        We eventually learned the power of that word, a free ticket to pass go. We'd kick over the pot of geraniums on the front porch, leave toothpaste globs to crust in the sink, or a trail of wet towels in our wake and if we just raised our innocent eyes up and said a heartfelt "sorry," our mom would sigh and forgive us.

        In 7th grade, we bumped the universally disliked Nancy Brockmeier's elbow in the cafeteria just as she raised a spoonful of red Jello cubes to her mouth and sang out a sarcastic, "so-rry!" Then we'd prance away, snickering into our shoulder while the gelatinous blocks bounced across the floor.  

        In high school we had more to be sorry for - abandoning our best friend since kindergarten because she wasn't cool enough, skipping last period to sneak out into the spring sunshine, writing the key words to the history exam on the inside of our left forearm. But by then no one asked us to "say sorry." Our best friend just sat sadly at the uncool lunch table, our parents didn't find out we'd skipped, and the words washed right off our arm after we gained a pass to the girl's room.

     

     As we grow older, we revisit the idea of "sorry." It might be just that we failed to hold the door for the person behind us, and then we recover, smiling as we catch it before closing. Threading our way through a crowd, our shoulder hits a stranger and an automatic, "sorry" pops out of both us and the stranger. The word has gained some meaning, but it still doesn't have the weight that our parents had hoped for.

        Then finally, someone we care about experiences true and paralyzing grief, and no matter how much we look into her eyes or clasp a hand, we realize that our "I'm so sorry" will never, ever, be enough. 

        
    

Is Cursive Cursed?

As a teacher, I used to dread having to write notes home to parents, not because of any issues that note might generate, but because I always wondered if they’d believe a teacher had written it.

Lost Summer Echoes

Old push lawn mowers – The morning’s clacking sound of the metal blades, louder as they crossed the hot summer cement driveway, more muffled as they filled with the long dew-wet grass.

Sticks and Stones

Sunday definitely brought a break in our routine as we headed for the emergency room, Mr. Welcome Words folded into six foot three of agony.

Planting Optimism

Yesterday I was wandering up and down the rows of daisies, petunias, and impatiens at a local nursery.