I'm thankful for this time to live and suffer if need be. There also is a chance to give and do so generously. Though it be short or it be long, though what I do be small, I offer back a thankful song in praise and give it all.
Linked to Michael Williams (Farrago Express) poetry challenge on giving thanks. I used a similar common meter to the poem he provided as a prompt.
Oranges, reds and watery blue - Wintry grays though seep on through.
Linked to Cosmic Photo Challenge where Dale offers the theme “a splash of color”. Against the gray of coming winter there is still some color in the woods and along the lake.
Also linked to Trent P. McDonald’s The Weekly Smile. Most of the leaves are gone and the weather turned cold, but I still enjoyed a trip to Lake Michigan. All worth a smile or two.
I have been rereading Mario Murillo’s Vessels of Fire and Glory this past week. I will likely read it again later. This sentence stands out for me.
When the pain of being average becomes stronger than the fear of greatness, you will embrace your destiny.
Mario Murillo, Vessels of Fire & Glory, page 137.
Here is a beautiful song from All Sons and Daughters. This is the kind of song that, once I’ve heard it, I can feel it going through my mind guiding my Sunday walk.
For years Bill enjoyed beer, pizza and ice-cream. When diagnosed with an autoimmune disease he changed his diet.
Someone told him to stop drinking beer. He stopped. Someone suggested avocado toast. What’s that? He was told it’s obvious what that is. So he tried it. Someone said to stop eating pizza. Is that because of the wheat? Yes. There goes the toast.
Bill’s weight sank to normal and he felt better. He noticed he was spending less on food than before. Thankfully no one told him to stop eating avocados, but then he no longer asked them for advice.
Linked to the Carrot Ranch November 12 Flash Fiction Challenge where Charli Mills offers the theme of “avocado toast”.
A very short story of mine, “Friday the 13th”, appeared in Whispers and Echoes. I am grateful to the editor Sammi Cox for accepting it.
I mailed a form to the Miami-Dade Supervisor of Elections to change my party affiliation from the Florida Democratic Party to the Republican Party of Florida.
Given the reports alleging voter fraud associated with mail-in ballots and the Dominion Voting Systems, I am embarrassed to have aligned myself with the Democratic Party for decades in the various states I’ve lived in.
Bill reached too far. He was the one Who spoke our compromising spell. We warned him to beware of hell, But Billy laughed. He'd just begun. He had more wicked laps to run. It happened at that twisted bend. We'll leave to medics who'll pretend They knew the cause of Billy's death. In dreams we smell his fetid breath. We hear him scream, "Please, make this end!"
Linked to Ronovan Writes Décima Poetry Challenge where the rhyme word “one” must appear in the A rhymes of the poem with a rhyme pattern ABBAACCDDC.
Joan was worried when she heard them clip phrases from her testimony before broadcasting it through their propaganda machines. That they got away with those distortions made her think the coup couldn’t be stopped.
However, Joan’s whistleblowing was the key to evidence that was now being confirmed. She couldn’t see what was happening, but then she didn’t need to. She only had to do her part which she did, and did well.
The republic successfully took it from there.
Linked to Six Sentence Story where Denise offers the prompt word “clip” to be used somewhere in a story of six sentences.
Just ask yourself, “What will be my greatest regret when this is over? What will haunt me most in the future about my actions today?”
Mario Murillo, THE ONLY THING THAT WILL MATTER TO YOU WHEN THIS IS OVER, Mario Murillo Ministries, November 11, 2020
Linked to Linda G. Hill’s One Liner Wednesday.
This memoire recently appeared in the Prairie Writers Guild 2020 anthology, From the Edge of the Prairie. I am grateful to Connie Kingman for accepting it and for the editorial comments from John D. Groppe. This anthology is not readily available and so I am reprinting it here since I still own the copyright.
I was twelve in 1963 living on a farm with my family in Newton County. My brother, two sisters and I were used to severe thunderstorms in the spring. Our two youngest brothers were likely too small to realize the dangers. Each spring I wondered how bad it would get and hoped for the best. I could sense how serious a storm was by the brightness of the lightning and how loud and how soon afterwards the thunder cracked. Sometimes the power went out, but that power failure didn’t bother me as much as the thunder. What really convinced me of the severity of a storm was whether Mom would light a votive candle near the small statues of Jesus and Mary. I assumed she and Dad knew more than I did and Dad never discouraged any of those prayers. I imagined he was praying as well as he watched the sky for signs of trouble.
The house was old. It was set on cement blocks and shook in the wind. There was a detached root cellar with a dirt floor about two feet below the surface of the surrounding flat farmland. If it were any deeper, I suspect it could have reached the water table and at least seasonally flooded. To keep it cool and further protect it Dad piled earth against its cement block walls. At least once in my memory we used that root cellar as shelter from a storm.
Storms worth worrying about came from the west. Looking west we could see fields and forests and vaguely in the distance a building from a neighbor’s farm perhaps over a quarter mile away. To this day, I don’t know who that neighbor was, but I am sure Dad did. Although there were closer neighbors along County Road 55 on the east side of the house running north and south, some of whom I did know, that distant building was the only one I could see from our farmhouse.
When such storms appeared Mom prayed with us, Dad listened to the radio and watched the skies as long as possible, and our uncle on Dad’s side if he were there might say something like, “If it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go.” Once a storm came while we were having a birthday party. The phone attached to the wall began to smoke with the smell of burning electrical insulation. I remember another uncle swiftly lifting his foot and kicking the phone off the wall.
Such were my childhood adventures of growing up in northwestern Indiana. Although my dreams centered around fighting alongside Flash Gordon as we saved Dale Arden from Ming the Merciless, the real adventures happened on my knees with my brothers and sisters and Mom staying together in case we had to go to the root cellar.
The worst storm that I ever experienced occurred on April 17th 1963.
I didn’t realize that anything was about to happen, but thinking back on it our parents must have been well alerted by weather reports from the radio. They kept us all inside for some reason even though the afternoon appeared bright and calm. Some of us likely wanted to go out. If you looked to the east, it was a nice day. Then Dad rushed inside telling us to get into the car. As the oldest I made sure my brother and sisters moved outside. Mom carried our two youngest brothers.
As we got into the car the clear afternoon sky above us gave me a full view of that contrasting western sky. A tornado, wider than I thought tornados could get, was heading toward the farm. It was coming straight for us. I imagined what might happen next. First the barn and grain shed would be demolished, then the garage, then the chicken house and finally the farmhouse. I supposed the cellar would go as well burying anyone seeking shelter in it.
Dad started the car and we rushed to the end of what seemed at the time a needlessly long lane. Then he had to make a choice. Should he go north or south on 55? He chose south perhaps because the view had fewer trees to block his vision of the approaching winds. We were half a mile away when Mom told him that the tornado had changed direction and was again heading toward us. I remember seeing the side view of his face as he turned to look through her window to confirm this. Whatever he was feeling he appeared alert and focused only on his next move. He braked turning into the entrance of a field, put the car in reverse, backed out, shifted to first, shifted to second, shifted to third. As we drove north I looked back to see the tornado cross 55.
By the time we reached the farmhouse, which was still standing along with all of the other buildings thanks to the change in direction of the storm, hail had begun to fall. Dad parked close to the porch of the house so we could quickly get inside. He continued to watch the hail and the clearing sky for a few minutes longer. I don’t think he was concerned anymore, but he needed solitude to gain composure and express his gratitude.
According to the newspaper report I found in our parents’ album sixteen people were hospitalized and the Gifford area in Jasper County was hit the hardest. There were also a couple of photos of the tornado from that paper, but neither of them compared at all well with my memory of that wide, tall column of darkness full of twisting wind coming through the calm of a peaceful day across open fields toward us.
First comes cold with winter's snow To make a mess and cause distress But spring will bring much to behold. Have patience now for that caress.
Linked to Cosmic Photo Challenge where Dale offers the theme of “the first breath of winter”. These photos were from last year’s first snowfall which melted quickly but left a lot of snow. We might get a repeat this coming week.
Also linked to Trent P. McDonald’s The Weekly Smile. The forest preserve provided many smiles. I also went to parts of the preserve I had not visited in decades. I was surprised I could remember the trails after such a long time.
Another smile arrived this morning when I saw a story of mine, “Patience”, in Whispers and Echoes. I am grateful to Sammi Cox for accepting it.
Poetry, Short Prose and Walking 