Tag: short stories

School’s Out!

weeklywritten6 Comments

The sun will soon rise, along with the heat and humidity. An early start to the first day of summer vacation means only one thing—up and out of the door early, for there’s no time to waste.

Bryson leaps out of bed, throws on his shorts and a dirty T; the same he’d worn the day before. There’s no time to brush his teeth or comb his hair. He scarfs down a pop tart, grabs his bag and pole, and out the door he flies – his trusty sidekick, Tater, following right behind. A golden retriever, Tater was born the runt of the bunch. The breeder wasn’t going to sell him as they thought his days were numbered. Well, they were; he’ll be celebrating his third birthday next Sunday—1,095 days for those counting. Anyway, due to his small size and tan color, Bry said he looked like a tater tot, and the name stuck!

His flip flops somehow manage to stay on his fleeing feet. He hops upon his stallion and sets out across the great divide—actually, it’s a blue metallic Schwinn. With a pump of the pedals, down the driveway he goes. Midway, he turns left; cutting across the lawn. And of course, his trusty companion galloping nearside. By this time, coffee should be brewing just in time for dad to fill a cup before hitting the road for work. Maybe Bry will have a fish tale or two to share when his dad gets home tonight.

It’s a short trek to the pond; less than half a mile from the back door. The homestead is modest as it is humble….just like the family who calls it home, and the generations before them. While it isn’t a working farm, a menagerie of critters roam about. The Chamberlin’s have three horses for riding, some chickens for the eggs and the traditional ambiance, and even a goat, a pig and a cow—all rescued souls.

The family is a trio who enjoys the outdoors. Klare, Bryson’s mom, has an endless bouquet of flowers ready for the picking. She’s a a Master Gardner besides being part time accountant for a small business in town. Her husband, Mark, is an IT manager at the local hospital. He grew up on the farm and is proud to be able to share his childhood blessings with his family; especially his son. Bry, has inherited his love for farm-life from his daddy, along with a few of his sayings like, Hard work keeps ya humble and Dirt keeps you anchored to this earth.

Coasting in on his blue steed, Bryce and Tater arrive at the pond. The front of the pond is wide and open, but as one follows around the sides, there are stones and trees that begin to fill in as a border, making one feel like they’re walking into a Bob Ross painting. The surface of the water is calm and clear; reflecting all God’s glory.

He makes his way around the back—the best spot in town. Canopied by trees, the temps are cooler, as is the tender green grass that’s littered with wildflowers. The fallen log along the shoreline will be his final destination. There’s a small clearing about 40 feet away that is open to the eyes above…. standing there in the shade and looking at the sun’s cascading rays beaming through; he can feel the magic. Many lads his age wouldn’t appreciate the contrast of the beauty around him to that of concrete cities where it’s about the hustle and bustle, but he did. “Nurture this world, as it nurtures you”, his daddy always says. At the age of eight, he is growing to be quite the little philosopher.

He gets right to work, laying out a small blanket where Tater quickly claims his spot. Bry sets down his pack and opens it up, taking out a canteen and a bag of pretzels. He also takes out a ziplock bag holding a light assortment of fishing gear; he didn’t feel like lugging his tackle box today. And, so, he slaps on a lure and casts it on out, “Now, Tater, we’ll see who wants breakfast.”

It’s not long before the little red and white ball bobs in the water. He begins to reel; the hook comes back empty. “That’s okay, Tater, that’s part of the fun.” Dad always told him that it wouldn’t be much fun if they just hop in the net…..good things takes time. Besides, there was something peaceful about sitting, casting and reeling the day away. So he kicked back…he had all afternoon. Zing, out goes the line. Just as the lure broke the water, a noise comes from behind.

Tater rises to his feet, letting out a low growl as he stands between the boy and whatever, or whoever, is beyond the foliage. “It’s okay, boy”, Bry says, reassuring him. Steady footsteps crunch the fallen leaves carpeting the worn path; twigs snap. The large shrub before the two amigos rustles before they spy the face that suddenly emerges.

“So, any luck?”

Tater takes off, like his happy go-lucky self. Bryce’s eyes pop with excitement, “Dad!” Suddenly, he’s trying to figure out what day of the week it is….”What are you doing here…thought you’d be at work”. Mark had made plans to take the day off and spend the first day of summer vacation with Bry.

Mark puts down a huge bag and sits on the log next to his son. His line is prebaited; he gives it a throw. Dad’s natural arm…he can make that line sail for what seems forever, thought Bry. Smooth and effortlessly. One day, he hoped he’d come close.

The time passes with simple talk and quiet moments. Soon, their bellies begin to rumble, but Dad thought of everything. He brought chips, sodas, hotdogs and all the fixings. Off to the side was a bag of precut wood and two large sticks for roasting the dogs. He even brought a bowl of cut of watermelon – a former Scout, Mark prided himself on being “always prepared”. Even Tater was going to be a happy camper.

They build a fire, make small talk and soon feed their faces. The day just couldn’t have been any better; well, except one thing…. They look at one another and then at Tot. Then, they count to three and shout, “Go!”, as they race towards the pond. They’re the last ones in and the first ones out; no match for a water dog like Tater. The pond’s mirrored surface becomes rippled from the splishing and splashing; the sound of their ruckus and the barking rises above the trees.

The shifting sun tells them it’s time. They gather their things and clean up camp; making sure the fire is out. Bryce pushes his bike as they walk together on their way home. Kicking rocks, telling tales and Mark bragging about his son’s fine casting arm. “You’re gonna be better than your ol’ dad before long”, he says. Bry smiles. He knows he’ll never be that good, but is happy to be second to the greatest man he’ll ever know.

It was a good day. That’s until they open the door and Klare tells them both, “get upstairs and take showers before you touch a thing.” But that was okay, because the house smells like fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, which are worth at least a little soap and water. It’s going to be quick suds, b’cause those cookies just can’t wait.

The first day of summer vacation; priceless.

-v.

The Shovel

weeklywritten4 Comments

My childhood was an accident looking for a place to happen. My entire family waited for my next, “incident.”

For example, it was two degrees from dark outside when my dad told me to go put my bike away for the night and to be careful of the garden tools in the yard, as he was cleaning them and putting them away.

Well, I stowed my bike in the shed and decided to run around the house; taking in that one last breath of fresh evening air before settling in for the night. I ran. I ran like the wind. The sky was holding onto that last bit of dusk, the breeze was cool against my skin; I felt free as a bird….and as I rounded the corner in the back; Whack! ~ My foot hit the shovel, the shovel hit me and the stars shined brighter than ever before. It was like a classic cartoon skit, except I wasn’t laughing.

A goose egg emerged right in the middle of my forehead. I could feel the immediate swelling and tautness in my face. The voice of my dad’s prior warning immediately dulled the pain and dimmed the swirling stars.

I managed to find a place to disappear to for a few minutes, as I waited for him to go in the house. I made my way to the back porch and sat listening to the voices inside; racking my brain for a way to get in without being seen. Then, I heard it…my name being called. I knew by the third time, that final warning all kids know too well, that all hope was lost. Of course, I tried the quick entry and dart back towards my room, but that didn’t work. So, I turned to face the music. And, so it played…. “What did you do? I told you to be careful”. But, that was quickly drowned out by the compassionate notes of love and concern.

I’ve sprained things and broken things to the point where the closet looked like a medical supply store—the usual ace bandages, splints and crutches. The roller skates, tether ball, pogo stick, mini bike, scissors and even a baton we’re culprits of my misfortune. Heck, I remember when I tried to ram a ball with the front tire of my bicycle. I was filled with such excitement, anticipating how far that thing was going to fly… Of course, the Law of Physics led to an abrupt stop, my hurling through the air and landing face first onto the lawn. Off to the hospital with a broken nose we went.

We all have stories to tell and scars to bear. And, after all theses years, the shovel remains my most vivid memory—I still can’t look at one without recalling the “Whack!”

-v.

Blooming Heirlooms

weeklywritten2 Comments

The near complete set of vintage china sold for twenty-five dollars at the garage sale. After they were put into the car and headed down the road, I knew my heart would be forever chipped like the one tea cup and its faithful companion I kept as a reminder.

The sentimentality stirred like dust, reminding me of the savory morsels that would find their way upon the delicate white and subtle blue floral-swirled pattern. Fragrant, delicious memories stirred in my mind as I recalled platefuls of Grammy’s Sunday pot roast and bowls ladled to the brim with Dad’s chicken stew. And, my favorite, those little plates…. salad plates, that were just my size when I was a little girl…. brought such sweet joy—Mom’s Hummingbird cake!

As the car disappeared over the last hill, lost in the distance of the tapering street, fading foliage and shrinking trees, so went my great-grandmother’s dishes. Suddenly, my heart sank and my body was overcome by anxiety. There was a deeper sense of loss I hadn’t expected. I felt compelled to chase after the faded green sedan with all my might, no matter how far or long into the night that it would lead. Instead, my reality was awakened by my breathlessness and pounding heart…feeling as though just I ran a 5k.

It was 3 o’clock. The sale was over. I tried to hum away the disappointment in myself as I put things away. But, there was no tune that uplifting. Nothing could drown out the sounds I imagined of those dishes rattling about in a box from the backseat, as if I could hear them screaming back at me, “take me home”. I was crushed.

During troubled times like this, I’ve always found peace in the garden. I guess that makes sense, as there I am surrounded by hopeful blooms, tender pods, butterflies and creepy crawly things. There’s light and life all around. The flowers and vegetables are sun kissed and the freshly troweled earth has streams of wetlands about the stalks. The smells and sights bring such peace.

It’s a warm day, but not hot. In fact, its a perfect day. I take off my hat, my eyes closed, and I stretch out my arms up and wide as I arch my back. The buzzing of bees provide the humming the I couldn’t muster earlier. It’s truly music to my soul.

I didn’t realize how long I had been preening the glorious bounty. But, I did know that it was going to take a little more than stretching to get me up and moving from the position I had been sitting. Upon standing and brushing off my pants, I heard my own laughter. It came in the comfort of the days when I would ask my mom how old she was… she’d reply, “old as the hills and twice as dusty”. And, if you could ask my Grammy and my Great, they would tell you the same.

I plucked off a tomato to take into the house. After those few hours of being a garden pixie, I thought nothing would be better for dinner than a nice tomato sandwich with mayo and a little black pepper. And maybe a bit of potato salad to help round things out. As I plucked the beautiful red fruit, I could smell the fresh green aroma of its fuzzy stem. I was suddenly eight years old, standing there with Pop; with a “mater” in one hand and salt shaker in the other. Life was good. Then, filtering through the mosaic pedals and vining tendrils, came the soft whispers of the blue floral and swirls rising above the humming bees; seemingly taunting my memories.

I stopped. I was met with a thought—that little faded green sedan with a mother and her two young children. I remembered our conversation during which time I could see how delighted she was with the dishes, my dishes, that she confiscated for twenty-five dollars. I recall her telling me how they had just moved to town. Her and the kids were out scouting for bargains as well as nostalgic pieces. She said she just couldn’t waste her days amongst too many modern day spoils. She was thrilled about her prior stop where she had picked up 24 mason jars for just two dollars. The kids were excited about mama making up their favorite preserves and meat chutney.

It was at that moment when the whisperers completely faded and my heart became whole; less the chip that remained. And, that twenty-five dollar sale…it became a priceless memory in my knowing of how the old love was embraced by a new and of how the heirloom would continue to bloom just like those in the garden that Pop sowed so many years ago.

Now, the only sound I can hear is my tummy hankering for that tomato sammy….

Yes, it is a beautiful day, here amongst the blooms.

Papillon Wings

weeklywritten4 Comments

I remember when I shined. I remember feeling alive. I remember basking in a new day without fear or dread; embracing life without reason or rhyme.

With a spirit of a butterfly and a heart just as fragile, I surfed the breeze to wherever it lead. Never in a straight line or on a narrow path; the journey was my destination.

Blue skies and golden beams energized my spirit. Days of heather gray and silver clouds calmed my soul. Nothing seemed to ever weather or dampen my wayfare. 

Carefree. I wasn’t concerned with the chaos that most found their lives to be. I fluttered by; being me. 

Love came. Life happened. My gossamer wings carried me no matter the calm or the gale currents that steered me.

But, as a Flutter-by, I grew faint in my travels. My wings became fragile and frayed. Still, they sustained me. But, for how long or how far, I did not know.  

I rested upon a branch of a fallen log of what seemed like the edge of Eden. Colorful wildflowers and tall soft reeds of grass swayed gently like graceful ballerinas. Serenity.

I stretched my wings; they unfolded. The last rays of the setting sun resurrected their fading beauty. I felt renewed. 

Today’s fair-winds will carry me towards morrow— for, it’s another day.

-v.