Winter Dreamin'

Yarns spun, cosied up to a fireplace on a frigid day so cold that even the icicles are shivering,

No warmth from the sun 

covered in sweaters and blankets

weaving our dreams 

telling stories to ourselves

about beaches and the open road

in a convertible - a cherry red one - 

punishing ourselves………..No

Not punishing ourselves….

just dreams of being Thelma and Louise - 

feeling guilty for ……. No

Not feeling guilty…..

eating more mint ice cream and chocolate chip cookies

~~~~~

Reboot:

Yarns spun, cosied up to a fireplace on a frigid day,

so cold that even the icicles are shivering,

No warmth from the sun 

covered in sweaters and blankets

telling stories to myself

weaving my dreams 

about flying away to Hawaii - 

in my personal jet on flame painted wings ~

Restless and cranky…….No

calm, centered and bowing to the Universe

Sticking and stuck to the sofa……No

Up and rearranging the living room……

~~~~~

I give up - it’s all good.

I’m just making supper -

I haven’t eaten enough today…..

“When it comes to life, we spin our own yarn, and 

where we end up is really, in fact, 

where we always intended to be. “

~ Julia Glass, Three Junes

 

Just Plain Corny

Just Plain Corny

Romantic liaisons and Claire had not always been simpatico. Some relationships were absolute non-starters. Others were unpleasant. Some just did not have any staying power. With this relationship, Claire was enjoying herself truly and without guilt. Through all her previous relationships, one person had been with her. Tears, anger, frustration, even the flush of a new love. It hadn’t mattered. Cornell had always been there for her. It was strange that she always turned to him. She had never really liked him. At least that’s what she thought. His hair was too long and unkempt. His long narrow nose and wide-set eyes kept him from being attractive. And the colours and patterns he chose for those horrible bellbottoms that he wore. Right out of the ’70’s!

Because Cornell was so good to Claire, she never said anything about them, keeping her smirks to herself. He wore them with such confidence. Then came a day when she lost that control. She had lost control of her most recent relationship - a particularly disastrous one. She had called Cornell crying, blubbering about what a fool she had been, how could she show her face ever again, who would ever be good enough for her, and on, and on, and on. “I’ll be right over Claire. You put the teakettle on and make us some tea. I’ll stop at Sandies & Snickerdoodles for a big bag of cookies.” Claire blew her red raw nose noisily, grabbed the last tissue from the box and, dabbing at her eyes, went to the kitchen. 

~~~~~

Tea kettle on the boil, Claire chose two mugs from the cupboard. They were a set. Two pottery mugs Cornell had bought for her at a pottery show after the last mess up. Blue and green swirls, the mug’s belly fit warmly in anyone’s hand. Her reverie about pottery was broken by the door bell, followed immediately by a cheery voice “I’m here. Tea ready?” Claire turned from the cupboard, as if coming out of a bad dream. She just about dropped the mugs and burst out laughing. “Those are the most gawdawful pants!” Brilliant orange and day-glo green bellbottoms entered the kitchen before Cornell did. “You don’t like these?” Cornell looked stunned. “I do not like them and don’t know how you can wear them. ……Oh, Cornell, I’m so sorry. You are so good to me and here I am laughing at you and criticizing your slacks.” With that she started crying again, but not for long. In mid nose blow, she stopped, and stared at Cornell. The teakettle was demanding attention. Ignoring the teakettle’s loud scream she stammered. “I think I love you. You are my best friend and always have been - well since we met - oh, never mind. I’m just so upset and those pants…….”. Cornell, calmly, put the bag of cookies on the table, took the mugs from Claire and set them beside the cookies. He guided her to a chair and, sitting her comfortably, handed her another tissue. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear “It's about time.”

“I will be calm. I will be mistress of myself.”

~ Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

**Author’s note: Two parameters for this post, one set by this writer: “Romantic liaisons” and the other set by the Victoria writers group: ‘Claire was enjoying herself truly and without guilt’.

 

 

Home Spun

Oral history by Oxford dictionary has an elegant definition ~

“collection and study of historical information using sound recordings of interviews with people having 

personal knowledge of past events.”

~~~~~

Oral history ~

the stories passed one to another 

lost in our digital world

unearthed over one more kitchen table,

while on a walk chatting our lives

at a workday pause about 

our experiences, our pasts and our family stories

or even when speaking to the woman in the mirror 

seeing her mother or grandmother 

with an ‘OMG I look like her!’. 

~ history staring her right in the face.

hearing history with a “Doesn't he sound just like your uncle!” 

True oral history ~

much deeper and more sacred. 

valuable tradition lost in 

the pages of books and pixels on a screen 

without the embellishments of storytellers 

gifted with holding this cherished tradition. 

hands engaged with mirages of old challenges ~

faces weaving story with smiles, laughs and tears ~ 

searching stares to the heavens - 

pacing through the paces of history 

in a family, a culture, 

battles fought and won or lost

with the strengths and cautions 

of the past. 

Oral history has been silenced 

in these days of lockdown and social distancing 

yet still present ~

ridden in on the threads of our lives

like the notes of a simple song, a blues ballad or a great symphony’

“All history was at first oral.”

~ Samuel Johnson

 

Chapter Two, Episode Nineteen - Estranged - Situationally Theirs

Review, Revision, Edit and Update

It's one thing to find typo's and misspellings, but when a sentence makes absolutely no sense, that is tragic. This is one of the repairs to Estranged. I had obviously, done some cutting and pasting, rewording, and then not re-read the sentence! Not the first time I've made such a faux pas.  

I did fix the typos and misspellings. I worked on some rewording for a couple of sentences, which is lost to me now! The changes did not alter the intent of the sentence, but created more showing and less telling.

Estranged

Tales of travel had always fascinated Dez; this most recent tale would be exciting! Emelina, her sister, and Emelina's old friend Jeremy, were now Dr. and Mrs. Crawford. The newly weds had returned from their travel to the mainland. Dez still had the letter that Emelina had left for her to read after they left. She read it again. So pleased for them both, Dez was especially pleased for her sister, although it was bitter sweet. Dez and Emelina had been estranged for over ten years until the frightening pandemic descended like a fog on Hartley and the whole country. Dez chuckled, remembering the night that she had been jailed following a failed ‘bank robbery’. The officer in charge of her case located Emelina Beaufort, alone in her big mansion, her butler and all other staff having scattered into their separate homes on the advice of Public Health. Neither Dez nor Emelina knew whether they would even like each other, but it was the middle of the night and the pandemic was just unfolding. Emelina had been in deep grief for at least four years following the death of her husband, Michael. Dr. Jeremy Crawford had been her husband’s best friend and had also lost his spouse the year before Michael had passed. Dez nodded to her silent living room. “Yes. It is really good for them both, but I’ll miss my sister.” 

~~~~

Travel had been discouraged on the Island with the continuing advance of the pandemic ~ unless ‘absolutely necessary’.  Was eloping ‘absolutely necessary'? No. In the note she left for Dez, Em assured her little sister that they had a large quantity of good quality masks, and would follow all other rules: hand washing and social distancing ~ except when they were alone. And if Dez had been asked she would have suggested that her apartment could be their honeymoon suite. She would just stay out at the Estate and claim innocence about where they really were. 

Dez had been the alone in her apartment for several days now, having decided to decrease the amount of back and forth time to the Estate. Her small part-time job with Mr. Jorgensson at his laundry, had dried up as he had let go of all his employees. He only had one or two customers a week now, as in his early business days. He had apologized profusely to Dez and promised he would call her again when his business picked up. She thought of the smell of clean laundry, smoothing and folding shirts and dresses. Picking up the black and white photo of their mom hanging laundry, Dez smiled at young Emmie handing her the old wooden clothespins. In the quiet, she had drifted back to their tiny backyard in their small town. 

Dez shook her head clear: “If it hadn’t been for the park across the street I’d have been nuts by now. I get some good walks in, watch the birds and squirrels until I get soaked to the skin.” Her cell phone beeped - a text message from Em. “They’re home!” She picked up her keys, shrugged on her coat and left her apartment for the estate.

“Sharing tales of those we’ve lost is how we keep from really losing them.”

~ Mitch Albom, For One More Day

 

Fictions and Fantasies

Sagas and legends told ‘round campfires and kitchen tables,

translate into novels, movies and family secrets.

Threads and tapestries of lives lived and wanderings wandered,

fiction and fantasy through

history with each step from birth to death 

may not be sensational 

filled with deep poverty or opulent riches 

but just with day to day awakenings

to arise at sunrise, say good night at sunset.

To feel the joys of family or

the sorrows of family or ~

probably both of no great consequence

to none but the person of the moment

Legends with gold and black threads, 

truly lost in the mists of storytelling,

are trumpeted and embellished until

only heard as fiction or fantasy

but stories nonetheless ~

stories that excavate the past to show us

where we have come from ~

giving us a map to show us 

mistakes made or opportunities missed.

Our personal sagas and legends,

one crossing over the other 

colour and texture our days and 

whisper dreams through our nights ~

warm fictions and fantasies

from sunrise to sunset.

“An actual saga demands change, both in its characters and its world.”

 Katharine Kerr, novelist

“The truth about the life of a man is not what he does, 

but the legend which he creates around himself.”

~ Oscar Wilde

 

Story Tracks ~ STORY ~Theme for February 2021

Sagas and legends……

Tales of travel …….

Oral history…..

Romantic liaisons

Yarns spun…….

“Other people’s stories may become part of your own, 

the foundation of it, the ground it goes on.”

~ Ursula K.LeGuin

Authors note: New theme for the month: STORY

For the next five days, each post will begin with one line from the word ‘STORY’, the first through the last. A huge test for each month is the development of a new theme. 

Missing

It was dark.

Only street lights awake.

The world outside my window glittered.

Fog had stitched rhinestones on the world.

This cold Sunday morning world

of glittering white coated trees and cars,

fences, sidewalks and lost children’s toys

flaked away 

in the spare warmth of the sun

and a drifting wind chill.

Walking with a friend,

along a path away from the city,

thick snow-white glitter still clung

on thick frosted trees curling away

from nature’s brushes.

“What is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt in the sun?”

~ Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet