Rainy Days of Childhood ...

“There is a garden in every childhood, an enchanted place where colors are brighter, the air softer, and the morning more fragrant than ever again.” ~Elizabeth Lawrence

I woke up this morning to the sound of thunder and heavy rain. As I poured my first cup of coffee and sat down at my computer, I could hear the wind playing my wind chimes.

I marveled at the comfort it brought, so contrary to the dreary mood usually associated with waking to a rainy day.

Now, an hour later, the peaceful feeling is still there and it takes me back ...

There were six children in my house. My cousin, Bill, who was like a brother, lived with us and he and I were the oldest.

There was never a dull moment at our house. I can't say we were ever bored. If anything, we all had such over-active imaginations, there simply were never enough hours in a day to fill with adventures and pretending.

In the summer, after our chores, the days were ours to do what we wanted. On most, we could be found outside playing games, riding bikes, roller skating, or up in the old apple tree building a tree house from old boards we found in the woodshed.

Today brought the memory of another rainy day at our house long ago. It also began with a thunder storm -- how we kids loved watching storms! At the first rumble of thunder, we all headed out to our wide front porch to watch Mother Nature work her audio-visual magic.

Eventually, the storm wound down to a steady rain. Someone, I don't really remember who, came up with the idea to go down to the basement and build a fort.

All for one, and one for all, we raided the linen closet and with our arms loaded with blankets and sheets, we headed down the basement stairs.

We tied string and ropes from one wall to the one across from it and we draped our sheets and blankets over them. Each of us had our own living quarters that way.

Then we borrowed Mama's vacuum cleaner hose to use as a telephone -- that was always funny, because it left a perfect dirt-circle around our mouths. Every time we looked at each other, we laughed until our sides ached.

What fun we had that day. And, like with almost all the creative projects of childhood, most of the fun was in the actual creation of it. I remember it took almost the whole day to finish our blanket fort.

Those are the days I treasure most -- those seemingly insignificant times we took for granted, thinking they would last forever. But those years bonded all of us and they've served to keep us bonded, even now.

Maybe it's why I'm still not ready to grow up ... especially when it rains.


“Our whole life is but a greater and longer childhood.” ~Benjamin Franklin

"What is a Dad?"

My Dad, Joe Parrish

What is a Dad?

by CJ Heck

A dad is like an oak 

his roots firmly planted

in the soil of our birth 

the solid hardwood 

we all aspire to be 

strong, trusting, kind, 

the one who is 

always there 

 to guide our way.

His arms, the

 protective branches 

that reach wide

around his grove 

of seedlings

and anyone standing

in his shade

feels safe, secure

and loved.

His trunk may widen, 

the leaves above 

may pale and thin

 but he will always be 

our solid gentle oak 

the creator of our forest 

and eternally loved.

Happy Father's Day to all the father's out there.

I miss you, Daddy, today and every day ...

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Goodreads Blog Blitz: Mary T. Bradford

Author Mary T. Bradford

Hello Everyone!

My name is Mary T Bradford and I’m from Ireland.

Today I am a guest here with CJ for the very first Goodreads Author Blog Blitz.

I started my writing way back in the 1990’s. Like a lot of writers, I began with short stories. I enjoyed publication with these in magazines, newspapers and many anthologies.

So, when I was approached about a collection by my readers, I asked why not?

My 1st collection, titled A Baker’s Dozen (as there are thirteen stories within), is available in both print and e-book format. 

My collection contains a variety of stories about ordinary people that you may meet each day at work, shopping, or may even live next door to. They experience the same joys and sorrows as you and I, but how they handle those events is the difference. 

Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? Read A Baker’s Dozen to find out! Details on how to get a copy can be found at the end of this post.

Do drop by my Author Facebook Page and say hello on Twitter.

Check out  my blog and please join me on Goodreads, as well.

The link to my book on Amazon is as follows:  A Baker's Dozen.  Please leave a review if you like what you read, and thank you.

Before I go, I would like to extend a big thank you to CJ for hosting me and to Y Correa for organising the Author Blog Blitz.


"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Weathering Tropical Storm Andrea

Courtyard 

Heavy rain was testing my umbrella this morning as I went out barefoot to get the paper.

I love rainy days and I poured a cup of coffee and headed to the lanai to listen to the rain and read the paper.

The lanai is our favorite room of the house.  Completely windowed on three sides, we can view all kinds of weather, tiny lizards scampering about, and watch Florida bloom and grow in our courtyard.

We both lean towards a natural look and have cultivated what Robert calls, "A neat and tidy tropical jungle."  The man who used to own the house put in a fountain  right outside our bedroom window.  It wasn't working when we moved in, but once we invested in a new pump, Voila!  It's so peaceful, listening to the sound of falling water as you drift into sleep.

We've discovered so many wonderful things about living here.  One nice thing, in Florida, anyone can have a green thumb, even me.  Whatever I stick in the ground here grows and flourishes and I love it!

I smiled as I took another sip of coffee and pulled the newspaper out of its protective plastic bag.  There, on the front page of the newspaper, was an article about Andrea, the first tropical storm of the season!  Wow!  It's out in the Gulf and I guess we're in for a lot of wind and heavy rain.  As new Florida residents, that brings a mixed bag of emotions!

I do feel very safe here in our home.  Robert and I purposely bought what's called -- in The Villages, anyway -- a 'courtyard villa'.  It is made of concrete block construction which is then stuccoed.

The entire property, even the back courtyard and side patio, is enclosed by an eight-foot wall, which is also made of concrete block and stuccoed.  The wall is gated at one end, which opens to the street out front.  The whole effect is very Spanish and elegant and very private.

Lanai

Geez oh man, it's windy!  The palms are swaying like crazy!  Cleo and Kitty (our cats) are side by side at the patio slider watching the storm gear up.

I wonder what Andrea, our very first tropical storm, will bring.  She's our first introduction to the Florida hurricane season, which lasts from June to November.

This will indeed be interesting ...




"A Writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

The Old Woman and her Dog

Wrinkly Sharpei Dog

by CJ Heck

In the town where I used to live, there was a wonderful walking path down by the river. It was lovely, complete with benches, porta-potties, flower gardens, totems carved by a local artisan, and a wooden footbridge so you could cross over to the other side. 

On any given day along the scenic three-mile walk, you might see ducks, geese, groundhogs, heron, deer, and even an occasional skunk -- though this wasn't something you actually looked forward to seeing. I remember once, while speed-walking with a friend, seeing a baby skunk in the grass beside the path just ahead of us. We steered a very wide berth, just in case mama skunk was nearby watching her baby.

I used to love going there for a walk, or with a good book, when I needed to unwind. One fall afternoon I sat reading on my favorite bench, which was set in the grass under a tree, several feet from the path. I was enjoying a rare day off from writing and editing. Even with my eyes closed, I could tell it was fall. The heady scent of decaying leaves hung sweetly in the air.

The usual quiet was suddenly breached when a flock of Canadian geese flew overhead. Looking up, I had to smile as one honking straggler tried desperately to catch up so he could take his place in the perfect "V". It really was a beautiful day -- a really fine day.

Then I saw the strangest thing I've ever seen. This all came about as I was turning a page in my book and just happened to look up for a second.

Sitting on a bench kitty-cornered across the path from me was a heavy-set old woman wearing a long pink dress. She was noisily gumming a soda straw poking out of the hole on the top of a Pepsi can. I almost laughed, because she reminded me of a starving baby nursing at its mother's breast.

The woman's round face looked older than ancient. Her wrinkles had actually wilted into tiers. It vaguely reminded me of the time I was in a hurry and frosted a cake when it was still too warm. The icing slowly slid down the sides of the cake in much the same fashion.

The old woman's eyes were deeply set and nearly hidden, almost like two dark asterisks set into the folds of her flesh. I tried not to stare. I tried just turning away, but I failed miserably at both. I had to try even harder not to laugh, I really did, and I didn't actually lose the battle -- until I saw her dog and what he considered his role to be with this strange woman.

At first glance, I only saw the woman, but all at once, with a high-speed upward-outward motion, this hulking canine face popped out from between the woman's legs down at ground level. I thought to myself, my God, that is the ugliest dog I have ever seen!

 

Wrinkled Sharpei

The dog's face was framed on either side and above by the woman's long pink skirt and nearly engulfed by its own collection of wrinkles. His eyes were like two lumps of coal stuffed into a wad of brown dough. The mouth was gross, a gaping, slobbery pink hole that housed a pink tongue that hung all the way down to the bully-boy collar around its neck. Just above its mouth, also poked into the brown dough, was what I presumed to be its nose.

The total picture looked so insane! It was hilarious! Here was this grotesque old woman's head, and down below, her massive ugly twin peering out from between her legs! The wrinkled, toothless woman perfectly mirrored the animal beneath her.

But that's still not when I lost my battle to laughter. Up to this point, I had managed to contain myself pretty well, although I will admit, I did look around to see if I was on Candid Camera …

The old woman finally finished her Pepsi and got up from her bench. Slowly, she shuffled towards a trash can that was bolted to a fence post near the edge of the path. Sure enough, the dog was just behind her.

After dropping her soda can into the barrel, she turned her head to the side and with a series of revolting sounds, she belched loudly and hawked up a wad of phlegm -- a loogie of vast proportions, I might add -- and she promptly spat it on the sidewalk. Without missing a beat, the dog waddled over to the mess and promptly "cleaned it up" for her.

I was so busy trying to keep my gag and retch reflexes in check that I missed where the two went after that, but when I recovered my composure, I took a quick look. The old woman was back on the bench, the dog below, its enormous head again neatly framed in the pink folds of cloth and once more peering out at the world from between her legs.

It was that final picture and the improbable role reversal between dog and human that finally eroded what remained of my self-control and I drowned in a sea of laughter. My only thought was, thank God I didn't know her -- and I grabbed my book and ran before I peed myself.

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

The Reality of Rules

I remember one of the hardest things about growing up was learning all of the rules of ... growing up.

Things were always either black or white, good or bad and, to parents and the rest of the world, it seemed everything was either right, or wrong.

To this child, there really was no grey area, that safe place in between the extremes that we all enter as we grow older.

The way I learned best, of course, was through listening and minding my parents. But I also I learned by testing the very rules they imposed and finding out there were consequences for breaking them. (I spent a lot of time thinking about rules in the "naughty chair").

From a child's vantage point, grownups have it easy. They can stay up as late as they want. They don't have to go to school and sit in a classroom. They can do anything they want to do AND they hold the key to just about everything in a kid's life, too -- what they should eat and when; what they should wear; where they can go; when to come inside; when to take a bath; when to go to bed; when to get up; when to pick up toys or clean their room; even what they can watch on TV.

I remember growing up couldn't come fast enough, just so I wouldn't have any rules ... anyway, I wrote this poem from my inner child's point of view:

Rules

Parents sure have lots of rules,
things to do and not do.
I’ll be glad when I get big
and growing up is gone through.

I won’t need a dentist
or a barber for my hair,
and I’ll go buy a chocolate cake
that I won’t have to share.

Maybe, I’ll stay up all night,
eat junk and watch TV.
If I want, I’ll sleep all day.
No more rules for me!

“How will you get up for work?
You might get fired”, Mom said.
“You won’t make any money
by sleeping late in bed.”

Why would I need money?
Who needs money anyway?
Rules are bad. When I grow up
I’ll do fun things all day.

"How will you pay your rent?
How will you buy a car?
How would you buy your grownup clothes?
(you’ll be bigger than you are) .

You’ll have to buy the food you eat.
You’ll have to have a phone.
How will you pay your heating bill,
‘cause surely you’ll have a home?"

I hadn’t thought of all of that.
I can’t do that stuff!
It doesn’t sound like fun at all
and I just don’t know enough.

Mom said as I get bigger,
the rules get bigger, too,
but if we start at my age,
it's not so hard to do.

She said, "People grow like houses,
step by step, and brick by brick.
That’s the way we all grow up
and having rules is part of it."


There's an irony here.  We're finally grownups.  Now we miss those days of childhood innocence with its gentle, black or white, good or bad, right or wrong rules ...

(From the book, "Barking Spiders 2", by CJ Heck)

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Saturday Morning Epiphany

One with Existence

This morning after Robert left for work, I sat in the living room with my coffee, looking out my front window. 

Although I saw nothing spectacular there, nothing actually drawing my attention, I was suddenly aware that I was aware of nothing.

 In the prevailing silence, I realized something significant.

The wind was blowing my wind chimes and I could hear them tinkling. The canvas awning over the patio gently rippled and I could see the fronds of the fern on the glass table swaying.

 It was mesmerizing and I had a sense that I was floating and it seemed so real. I felt I was the wind, even though I knew I was only a witness to it. In the quiet, the wind and my awareness of it had become one, and everything moving in the wind had also blended with me.

It suddenly became clear to me. Everything and everyone is connected through awareness. We are a part of all things, even though they do not define us. We can sense our thoughts and feelings, just like the wind, but we are not those either, only a silent witness to them. We feel pain, sorrow, anger, doubt, happiness and joy, and those still are not who we are.

Spontaneously and naturally, these things all arise on their own within our awareness. It is important we recognize and validate their passing as part of our growth.

Even though I knew these things, I learned again that no one thing, or feeling, or feature of the universe is separate from the whole. The real me, my true self, is a part of the whole of existence.

That was profound.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

His Hands: by CJ Heck

His Hands

I was thinking, you can tell so much about a man by looking at his hands. 

Hands are so expressive. They can be kind, generous and loving, or they can be tough and aggressive and very unkind.

Are they working hands, calloused and rough, yet gentle?

 Are they hands that live at a desk, always clean and smooth and forever busy?

 Are they well-manicured and neat, or nervous, their nails chewed to the nub?

Are they wild and expressive, flying this way and that in a conversation?

Or, are they shy and pocketed, subdued like their owner?

However hands look, they seem to have their own personality.

And, maybe, just maybe, they're magically connected to a man's heart ...

His Hands

His hands should have

their own identity,

a name, perhaps,

befitting each vocation

they enjoy:

Skillful Hands --

Finely tuned,

they hold every tool

with equal panache.

Each callous earned,

a trophy,

but self-aware

and gentle

as they browse

my every curve.

Comical Hands --

The right one

scraping whiskers,

razoring down

a field of white

revealing trails of

pink-skinned angles.

I laugh at the silly poses

skewed by the left

so the right

won't miss a spot.

My just reward,

a foamy kiss.

Angry Hands --

His driving hands,

hands that slap

the wheel

as assholes

go too slow

or cut in front,

turn signals

up their butts

with their heads.

I'm glad the

angry hands

are only known

to live in cars.

Those hands --

I love his hands.

[From the book, "Anatomy of a Poet", by CJ Heck]

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"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck