Nuffing on My Plate

Today's blog, I'm going to dedicate to my niece, Katie Craig Wean.  I remember visiting my sister, Claudia, years ago, in Dayton, Ohio, when Katie was about five years old.  Both families, (her six and my five) were all seated around her dining room table filling our plates and talking.

I looked over to my left and there sat little Katie sniffling quietly, with huge tears making their way down her cheeks.  I leaned over and asked, "Katie, what's wrong, honey?"

Katie wiped at her tears and softly said, " I don't like (sniffle) nuffing on my plate (sniffle-sniffle)."

That one precious comment made its way to my heart and I never forgot it.  This poem is lovingly dedicated to you, sweet Katie ...

Nuffing on My Plate
by CJ Heck

I’m sad, I don’t like nuffing
that’s laying on my plate.
Maybe it will go away
if I just sit and wait.

I sure don’t like the liver
and I never, EVER could.
Can I have peanut butter
with grape jelly? That is good!

The smashed potatoes are okay,
yucky gravy it is NOT.
It’s like having icky oatmeal
and I hate that stuff a lot.

I almost like the green beans,
they’re green just like my frog,
but NO ONE likes dumb broccoli,
not even Hank, my dog.

Uh oh, mommy says we’re having
chocolate pudding for a treat.
Maybe if I hold my nose
stuff won’t taste so bad to me. 

Swinging Song

When my grandchildren were tiny, I had the cutest baby swing. It was molded plastic, red, and it had a safety bar that slid down and settled snugly in front of the baby to hold them in. I hung my swing inside a screened-in porch so the bugs and mosquitoes wouldn't be a nuisance if the baby fell asleep -- and they usually did.

One afternoon as I was swinging a grandson, I started to hum to the gentle motion of the swing. Sure enough, he started to nod and, as he did, the swing also slowed and I adjusted my humming again and again to the new motion of the swing.

After swinging many grandchildren, I finally added words, a few at a time, to the humming  and what resulted is the following song.   (sigh)  I sure do miss those days ...

Swinging Song.
 To listen while reading, push "Play" button.

Swinging Song

by CJ Heck

bye oh bye up, 

bye oh bye down. 

Bye oh bye feet, 

way off the ground.

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye high, 

bye oh bye low. 

Bye oh bye faster, 

look at me go. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye flying 

up to the sky. 

Bye oh bye push me 

higher than high. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

Bye oh bye eyes 

are closing now 

bye oh bye head 

is nodding down 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I love swing-ing. 

(whispering now,  swing slows down)

Bye oh bye gently, 

bye oh bye slow, 

bye oh bye, shhhhh, 

to    sleep    I    go. 

Swing-ing, swing-ing, 

I 

love

swing-ing.

Wedgies

I have the coolest friend. His name is Rusty Daily. We met on a writing website years ago where we both wrote poetry for children. He's a little older than I am and, like me, he's still just a big kid with a few more years on top.

Anyway, Rusty and I decided we would like to write some poems together. We did and I would like to share one of them with you:





Wedgies
by Rusty Daily and CJ Heck

You know what makes me laugh
and puts me into stitches?
It's when I grab ahold and pull
the waist of someone’s britches.

It’s fun! It's called a WEDGIE
and what a super name,
just pull and yell out WEDGIE!
It‘s really the coolest game.

Hmmm, I wonder who I'll get,
lil sissy or my big brother?
Or maybe, I should get my dad,
but definitely NOT my mother!

I'll NEVER do grandmas or grandpas.
To do that, you‘d have to be nuts,
'cause everyone knows, old people
don't even have any butts.

Fiction Contest

An author website where I belong hosts writing contests regularly -- paying contests -- and they're fun to enter.  The contests usually have a required theme, i.e., Flash Fiction, Science Fiction, Surprise Ending with a Twist, and the latest one, 100 Word Fiction.   The word count does not include the title and author's name lines, which means the body of the story must have exactly 100 words.  99 words or less or 101 and more will disqualify the entry.  The story also has to have a beginning, middle and an end.

Here is my entry.  The story has exactly 100 words, not counting the three lines above the story, as allowed by the rules.

I would love to hear your opinions and any suggestions.


The Miracle
100 Word Fiction Contest
By CJ Heck

Only days before Christmas, Jake still couldn't find any work.  Children shouldn't have to grow up this fast.  The elves still make toys, even now, in the Great Depression.

Today, like every day, Jake walked the tracks and picked up rogue coal.  It can't buy food, but at least it keeps his family warm.

Now dark and snowing hard, Jake sat on the curb, broken, defeated, and thinking,  "I'm worth more dead, than alive."
 
Then, with the gun to his temple, he suddenly spotted something in the slush.   Overwhelmed, he slowly reached down to pick up a fifty dollar bill...

Growing Up A Girl

I don't know about you, but as a child, I was happy most of the time and I felt relatively normal. I know it was that way all through elementary school.  By the time I went to junior high, though, my normal didn't feel so normal any more.  For one thing, I was a late bloomer and I started to have some real doubts about myself, when I saw the changes all the other girls were going through.

I remember Mama asking me, "Honey, what's the matter? You seem so quiet today. Is everything okay?" Once that door was opened, I ran  through it at full speed ... metaphorically speaking, of course. What follows is the conversation between Mama and me that day ...

Mama, Am I Pretty?

by CJ Heck  

Mama, am I pretty? 

"Why do you ask?" she said. 

She held me gently to her, 

and kissed me lightly on my head. 

"Your clothes are neatly ironed. 

Your face and hands are clean. 

You’re such a sweet child, little one, 

what does your question mean? " 

Mama, am I pretty? 

I really need to know. 

Am I pretty like the other girls 

at school where we all go? 

"You have a very loving heart, 

You’re gentle, kind and good. 

Your friends all think the world of you, 

anybody would." 

But, Mama, am I pretty? 

Sometimes, kids point or stare. 

I’ve got these real thick glasses 

that I wish I didn’t wear. 

Mama said my time would come, 

be patient and I’d see. 

The things that really matter 

were there, inside of me. 

But, Mama!  Am I pretty? 

(I didn’t mean to shout). 

Then Mama smiled and told me, 

"Sweetheart, yes, inside and out."

Do I Remember You?

There's a true story behind the poem I'm posting in the blog today.  I wrote it in 2000, after I received a letter from someone I hadn't heard from in over thirty years.  

I lived in San Francisco back in the early seventies, and I was a flight attendant with the now defunct airline, TWA.  This was what I had decided to do, after my husband, a combat medic, was killed in Vietnam the year before.  What I discovered very quickly, after moving so far away from my family in Ohio, was that grief follows you, no matter how far away you  move.  I couldn't understand why it still hurt so badly and I thought there must be something wrong with me.  

People didn't want to hear that my husband was killed in Vietnam.  Vietnam was wrong!  Vietnam was what people were protesting!  People said he shouldn't have gone and "get over it".  And yet, there I was, having a terrible time even coping with being alive -- I loved him, I missed him, and I wanted to die, too.  We didn't know about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) back then -- so I couldn't have known that I had a form of PTSD.  I've come to see that mine was caused by the trauma of Doug being killed, by the trauma of being informed by army personnel, (strangers), in my living room, by the trauma of having to wait sixteen more days for his body to be flown home, and probably because I was young, only twenty, and the anti-Americanism crap only added further to the problem -- it was as if they were bragging that Doug died for nothing, for no reason at all ...

I met the nicest man in San Francisco, within about six months of living there.  From Oregon originally, he was tall, very handsome, and we enjoyed each other's company very much.  He didn't tell me to "get over it" when I was overcome by my feelings.  As a matter of fact, he encouraged me to talk about Doug, lent me his shoulder and held me when I cried, and this unselfish comforting was all he seemed to expect of me.  He was my friend.

I don't remember now what happened, why we went our separate ways, but we did.  Knowing what a difficult period that was in my life, I was probably the one who broke it off.  But it wasn't until I received his letter in the mail thirty years later, that I found out that he had loved me, and I was stunned.  He had never told me.  When I read that, I remembered having feelings of my own, too, but over the years, I came to see those feelings more as deep gratitude, for being such a wonderful, caring friend when I desperately needed one -- and also for his strength of character, by not taking advantage of a grieving young widow.  

I'm happy to say, we've kept in touch since that letter came in 2000 -- email is a fantastic invention.   Now, I dedicate this poem with love, to my friend, Lee:

Do I Remember You?

by CJ Heck  

Do I remember you,

you ask, 

from so many

years ago?

 
(Who? The man with
a gentle touch
and loving hands?
The man whose

arms once

saved my life?

The man with

a caring shoulder

that welcomed

a widow's tears? 

Budding passion,

almost lovers,
undermined and
rent by fate?)

Many miles away
the years have passed.
Our mirrors echo 

younger faces, 

all gone now,
lives lived on
tandem shores. 

Silent hands reach 

through the ages 

spanning years 

from then to now, 

while fingers 

ply the keyboard

to fill in the

time between. 

Love and memories
come flooding into
present from the past
and I cry from
just one letter.
Yes, I do 

remember you ...

(c) 2000 CJ Heck

The Chippendales

Today, I decided to post one for the ... er ... mature ladies of the world.  I don't know if you've ever gone to see male strippers, but I've been there.  Well, to be honest, it was only one time, but it was wild and sexy and it imprinted some really nice memories ...

Visiting the Chippendales
by CJ Heck

Back when I turned forty,
some friends took me
to see male strippers.
I never knew
there was a place
you could go
where there was
so much action 

without
ANY
action.
We were small dots
in a sea of faces,
distorted by the
strobing lights
set to music,
sexy, seductive,
and LOUD,
but it had to be loud
to hear it above 

the screaming women ...

(BOOM ta da BOOM ta da BOOM)

“Take it OFF!  Throw it HERE!”

(BOOM ta da BOOM ta da BOOM)

 “Shake it, Ooo baby! Take it ALL off!”

(BOOM ta da BOOM ta da BOOM)

while a tan, muscled,
erotic, sexy young stud
humped and ground
a well-packed G-string
in a woman’s face
two
seats
down.

I remember thinking,

ho-ly shit,
what if I’m next ...

Mama always told me
'look but don’t touch'
but somehow,
the not touching
was SO much easier
when I was five ...

Lady Bug

My Lady Bug 

by CJ Heck

Hi there little lady bug,

whatcha doing on my arm?

Please don’t fly away.

I won’t bring you any harm.

I’m glad to have you with me.

I was feeling so alone.

Somehow I got me turned around.

I can't find my way back home.

I only took a little walk

behind a pretty butterfly.

Now I’m really scared and lost

and I think I’m going to cry.

Stay with me my lady bug,

please don’t fly away, 

and when my mommy finds me,

come home with me and stay.

I’ll let you share my bedroom

and when it’s dark at night,

Mommy leaves the lamp on.

Monsters hate it when it’s light.

Hey, that sounds like Mommy!

It is! She’s calling me!

Now you'll get to meet her.

You’ll like her, wait and see.

Lady bug, where you going?

I'll bet you're going home too.

Thanks for being lost with me.

Bye lady bug -- I love you.

A Preschool Poem

Today I thought it might be fun to post something for the really little ones ... just about the ages of a couple of my grandsons.  This one is for you, Jack, and you, too, Tyler!  I love you guys ...

Ten Little Piggies
by CJ Heck 

Ten little piggies
are standing in a line.
My mom and daddy told me
the piggies ALL are mine!

One by one Mom points to them.
Every piggy gets a name,
and then a place he goes to.
I really LOVE this game!

When Mommy sings the song,
I can see ten piggies wiggle,
and when Mommy kisses them,
it makes me smile and giggle!

When the game is over,
we put them in warm socks.
Hmmm ... just how many piggies
does a mom and daddy gots? 

In Honor of Life

A Short Story 
by CJ Heck

It was Memorial Day and, as she did every year, Sharon Cleary drove to the Eternity Gardens Cemetery with three of the prettiest spring bouquets she could find. She took this day seriously.  It was her private, personal time to  honor family members who died in war.  It was her way to show she cared.

One bouquet was always for Great-Grampa, "PJ" Mullerton, who died in a bunker during the first world war. Another bouquet was for Uncle Theo Tarns, who was killed when his bomber was shot down in the second world war. She had never met Uncle Theo, but she was still fiercely proud of him and, as with great-grampa, forever indebted to him for his service. The last bouquet of flowers was always the most difficult for her.  She always made sure this bouquet was the largest and most colorful of the three. This one had to be special. It was for Daddy.

Sharon was only six when she hugged Steven Cleary's neck tightly for the last time at the airport in Stewartsville. She remembered crying and pleading with him to stay. "Please, Daddy, don't go. I will miss you and so will Mommy. Please stay with us. We need you." She knew her father had been just as sad to leave them. She saw the tears he silently wiped from his cheek after he hugged her and then turned to hug and kiss her mother. 

Steven had been killed in action in Vietnam six months later, a decorated soldier and a hero. Her mother, Sarah Cleary-Buddig, had eventually framed his medals and they still hung on the wall beside his picture over the fireplace. Sharon remembered what a sorrowful time that had been, after the family learned of his death.  But as sad as she had been, she had never felt so completely helpless as she did, hearing her mother sobbing into her pillow at night and not knowing how to comfort her.

Sharon had been so lost in thought that she nearly missed Uncle Theo's grave. She had to turn and walk back two rows and she chided herself for not paying more attention. After she finished her prayers and was done talking to Uncle Theo, she took a deep breath -- it was time to find Daddy. Her heart always felt like it was in her throat as she walked the steep path to the upper section where her father rested in the Cleary family plot.

Just as she reached the top, she noticed an elderly woman bending over one of the older headstones on the left. Sharon watched in silence as the woman tenderly kissed a folded paper and then slipped it under a vase of roses on the flat marble headstone.  Then she adjusted the small American flag that was stuck in the ground to the right of the marker. As she stood, she suddenly turned and their eyes met. Sharon was stunned. She could almost feel the woman's thoughts through the look on her face and what was in her eyes. Then just as quickly, the moment was gone and the woman had turned away.

How amazing, Sharon thought, as she watched the woman walk slowly back down the path towards the entrance gate. The woman was crying -- I could see her tears, Sharon thought -- but she had the most beautiful smile on her face at the same time. Sharon felt compelled to go over to the headstone and read the letter the woman had so carefully tucked under the vase.

"To my husband, my lover, my friend:
I will always love you.
I hope you like the roses.
All my love forever,
Your Maeve"

She read the short note and, now crying herself, the words filled her with a beautiful new awareness. She could almost see the wheels of time turning the days and months to years, and then you realize that it's been a whole lifetime that a loved one has been gone. One day, like a bucket with a hole, you can see the sands of grief sifting slowly through, and instead of mourning their death, you begin to celebrate everything they meant to you in life.

Sharon closed her eyes and, as she replaced the letter under the vase of roses, she quietly thanked the elderly woman and walked back to her family plot. Then she placed her third bouquet on the engraved marble monument for her father. And as Sharon thanked Steven Adam Cleary once more for being her father, she remembered the love and the good times they did have together. This time when Sharon cried, she could also smile -- and the tears were tears of joy. 

Ride, Buffalo, Ride

An Honest to God True Story

by John A. Roof

It was getting close to the fourth of July and there was always a big celebration in Cimarron, New Mexico. At the time, I was working as a burro wrangler at Harlan Camp. We had been in the high country for three weeks and I was hoping that Bill Leach, my Camp Director, would let me have a couple of days off around the fourth. I always enjoyed going to the rodeo and, of course, checking out the girls.

Cimarron was a small town located at the mouth of the Cimarron Canyon and on the Cimarron River just on the edge of the high country and the plains which lead to the Texas flat lands and Lubbock, Texas. I was going to college there at Texas Tech University, and working on an art degree in studio painting, which my father considered to be a waste of time.

This was also my third year at Philmont Scout Ranch and, in my mind anyway, there was no place greater in the world to be than there. Later that day, Bill Leach said I could have the Fourth off, if the staff would let him have July 20 off so he could watch the first moon landing. Steve, the other staff member, had no problem with either one of us having our desired days off. He just wanted to have three days later that month so he could go to Denver for a weekend. So it was set. I would have the fourth off.

The problem with being in the high country camps was, even if you had the day off, you might not be able to get in because there was no traffic to the camps. So you would have to hike in or wait for a ride to show up. I decided to take a different route. I was going to ride my horse, Lisa, in to headquarters. It was faster than hiking and I thought it would be a great experience, being on horseback for part of the day alone, and taking in the beauty of the landscape from the back of a horse. As a little boy, I had dreamed of being a cowboy -- back then, I think everyone wanted to be.

The day of my departure, I grained the burros, cleaned the corral, gave a lesson on burro packing and showed the scouts how to tie a diamond hitch so their equipment would not fall off. Then I gathered my things, shoved them in the saddle bags, checked out with Bill, and headed for the corral. I saddled up Lisa, tied on the saddle bags, swung into the saddle and I headed out. I was really looking forward to this ride.

I followed the trail which led to Camp Cimmarroncito, between Deer Lake Mesa and Antelope Mesa. I had hiked this trail many times, when I was a Ranger, but this was the first time I had on horseback. I was hoping I wouldn't run into any bears. I had been riding fence a couple of weeks before and Lisa and I ran across a bear at one of the stock ponds and she really gave me a ride. I don’t think she likes them very much.

I checked my map and ahead was a cut off that would lead into the pasture and on down to headquarters. I found the cut off, it was old and not used very much, so it was like unexplored territory. I followed the trail till I found the first fence gate, dismounted, opened the gate and went through. I rode for the better part of an hour and then came to two gates. Without checking my map, I took the gate to the right, figuring that was headed the correct direction towards Headquarters.

After a while, I saw some cattle up ahead and I thought I would investigate. As I got closer, I pulled my rope and thought maybe I would do a little roping. “Wow! Those are some big Angus cows!” I spoke out loud to the open spaces. I didn’t know the ranch had any Angus Cattle. The closer I got, the bigger they looked. “Those are the biggest Angus I have ever seen!” I said again out loud to no one.

Then in a flash, it came to me. “Shit! I'm in the buffalo pasture! Oh hell ...” this time, speaking even louder, again to no one.

For the next few minutes, all you could hear were my spurs singing as I pushed Lisa into a hard run and headed for the nearest gate. Coming up on a small rise, I dismounted, making sure I was not being followed by any of the buffalo. Quickly, I checked my map and located the closest gate out of the pasture and headed straight for it. 

Once I was out of the buffalo pasture, I again spoke out loud, but this time it was to my horse, “Okay, Lisa, this is OUR little secret. We won’t tell ANYONE that we were in the buffalo pasture.”
We continued our ride to headquarters and then had a great Fourth of July.

The whole time I was in headquarters, and while I was at the rodeo, there was a smile on my face. The ride back on July 5 was not as exciting but it was a ride back in time and the beauty of the west. I was in the saddle early that morning and I am still in the saddle, in my thoughts.

Happy trails.

What is Beauty?

"Wow! Thats beautiful!" That's what we say, or think, when we watch the sun set over the ocean, see a spectacular view, a flower garden, or even a good-looking man or woman. But, where does the appreciation of that beauty originate? Where does our ability to understand beauty come from? I think it's right in our own consciousness.

The very essence of who and what we are is beauty. The essence of beauty can't be found in the sunset, a face, or a view. Those only awaken the essence of beauty within our own spirit. It's not only something we sense within ourselves, but it emerges in our character as virtue, and in our life as care. What is virtue, anyway, but love in action? The next time you say, "Wow! That's beautiful!" Remember, you speak of yourself, and it is you who are beautiful. You always were. You always will be.

Can beauty be defined with regard to people? Sure it can. There are two types, physical beauty and spiritual beauty. Physical beauty is subjective, we want to like what we see in our mirror. It can be bought through plastic surgery, cosmetics, clothes and so on, if you have the money. Physical attractiveness is appealing to the senses, but it's a fake beauty, based on society's superficial standards. 

Wait a minute, I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting to look and feel our best. Everyone does something for beauty, everyone, but that isn't true beauty. Spiritual beauty is true beauty, because it comes from within the heart and the soul of a person. When someone has a beautiful soul, their very presence can be sensed by others.

Spiritual beauty comes through awareness and from knowing there is a higher power who gives us the strength and confidence we need to live the best life we can. With that comes peace, confidence, and inner happiness. Spiritual beauty gives us an inner glow that others are drawn to because they also sense, and can feel, the awareness and beauty.

Feeling this good spiritually has other benefits -- it makes us want to take care of ourselves and our health, which, in turn, is good for our overall physical appearance. We gain inner balance by knowing who we are, and knowing we are beautiful, spiritually. As a result, we attract spiritual people into our lives, people who love the whole of us -- our mind, our body and our soul.

Now that's beauty ...