Posted in poetry, tagged appreciation, choice, first time attempts, humor, inspiration, know-it-alls, limerick, perspective, poem on December 1, 2023| Leave a Comment »
"I think the next best thing to solving a problem is finding some humor in it." –Frank A. Clark
My first attempt at writing a limerick
(A rhyme with a rhythm AABBA)
The critics who know everything
are like birds who fly with one wing.
As they drop from the sky without knowing why
that’s when other folk hear what they sing.
public domain drawing with major adjustment
Posted in short story, tagged Appalachia in the 1930's, choice, copperheads, death, Eoin Colfer quote, experience, family, inspiration, perspective, poverty, short story, snake handling, step parenting on November 15, 2023| Leave a Comment »
Confidence is ignorance. If you’re feeling cocky, it’s because there’s something you don’t know. Eoin Colfer
DOING RIGHT BY MAMA AND THE LORD
In Lime Creek, Kentucky we had rocks for farmland, a truck garden with more weeds than tomatoes, and a cabin set up on stones with copperheads underneath. But the snakes didn’t call us hillbillies like the folk in Ohio did, and me and my brothers and sisters didn’t have a stepmama who’d sooner kick us than share a loaf of five-cent bread.
We had Mama then. She got sick and couldn’t do nothing no more. Didn’t change her being Mama. Not to us. All of us kids took over chores. At four years old I held the metal pan for her to puke in. The blood scared me, but I never dropped the pan.
Then Mama got so skinny she hardly had enough skin to cover her bones. She asked all us kids to gather around her one day before the sun woke up. She told us an angel had come. She was going to heaven. That morning. She said she loved us. We didn’t want to hear it. Mama didn’t talk about loving—she done it. That was enough. We wanted her to stay right there in the cabin with us. Even if TB had stole all her breath and she couldn’t get out of bed no more.
Then Papa, my brothers and sisters, and me moved to Cincinnati in the summer of 1930. I had turned seven by then.
My big sister, Cloda, talked about heaven, where Mama lived, all the time. She talked about hell, too. Though I can’t say how she knew about either one. Neither Papa nor Mama ever brought us to any kind of church. And Cloda took care of Mama while she was ailing. Cloda never had time for schooling.
Cloda got this notion that she had to take me, my bigger sister Violet, and younger sister Elva to church to learn about God. Soon as we had proper clothes. So, when some folk from school dropped off a box of used stuff on our doorstep, she decided the time had come, a sign from God and a sign from Mama.
“Toy,” Cloda told me as us four girls settled down on our mattress one night, “I don’t want to hear no fussing from you about this. We’re going to honor the Lord and we’re starting this Sunday.”
My sister, Violet, groaned so I guessed Cloda had already told her about it. She leaned on her elbow and stared at us. “When you get your head on something, it sure stays stuck there. A tick don’t hold on the way you do.”
Cloda acted like she didn’t hear her, though in our tiny house, it wasn’t likely words could hide. Our room and mattress fit almost to the walls. Our bed didn’t have a sheet. We had one dingy window that opened to the morning sun, and a wood floor so worn that cleaning it was like trying to wipe the dirt off the top of an old sponge.
“Good night.” Cloda’s voice gave the notion everything would be okay. Just by setting in something called a pew and listening to a preacher talk.
I doubted it. Even as the dullest and oldest kid in third grade, I knew God took Mama away and didn’t bring her back. I couldn’t get excited about something I didn’t know nothing about. Besides, cracks around the window leaked cold air, and Violet smacked me when I leaned into her.
***
“So, what church we going to?” I asked Cloda that next Sunday as we walked what seemed a awful long way down Amity Road.
“Church of Eternal Holiness.”
“The Methodist church on Beech is a lot closer,” Violet said. She was smart and always acted like she had a bee buzzing around her that needed swatting.
“We can walk. It’ll be good for us. Besides, I like the name, with holiness in it and all.”
“What kind of church is the one we’re going to?” my little sister, Elva, asked.
“Don’t know, but a girl I work with at the trunk factory likes it.”
The church looked more like a old store than a church, no cross on it or nothing. We set down in the back, on this long bench. The room looked plain as a barn. Up front, right in the middle, stood a small, slanted table with one leg holding it up. A man, probably the preacher, leaned into it. He talked soft and down-home at first. I liked the sound of the a’s and o’s I remembered from Kentucky, more like music than in-a-hurry Ohio talk.
“Praise the Lord,” the preacher says. His voice sounded a little high for a man, something like our old neighbor, Homer’s, one of Papa’s drinking buddies.
“Praise the Lord,” the people answered, some loud, some mumbling.
“Because he tests our faith and finds us worthy.”
“Amen.”
“Oh, Lord, test our faith and heal our many sins.” Then he started hollering.
Elva scooted closer to me. “For the sins of flesh, the sins of pride and envy will condemn you into the eternal flames of hell. Sin against the word of God and forever after your death.” He stopped to look around at folks. “Your arms and legs, your head, body, and entrails will suffer the burning pain that never ends. And your soul!” He said soul like it was a bullet aimed into my chest. “Your soul will suffer forever.
I looked at Violet. She sat stiffer than the bench.
Would God send Mama down to hell?
I tried to think about something else: spending the day with friends, taming trees and eating chunk chocolate. But I couldn’t shut out the screams of the high-talking preacher up front. Folks started moving around, hopping sideways. The “Praise the Lords” and “Amens” around us kept getting louder, like a train coming closer and closer, then jumping the tracks and running us all down. Some folks hollered stuff that wasn’t words I ever heard. Kinda like gargling or baby babble, but a lot scarier.
“But we will prepare ourselves. Yes, believers, we will prepare ourselves,” the preacher said. “Fast and pray. Pray and fast. Put your faith in God. Next Sunday we will handle serpents without fear. Their poison cannot harm us because our faith is strong.” The preacher raised his arms up like he was making a Y or reaching for the ceiling.
What? I tried to sit as still as I could since I couldn’t disappear. All this yelling was bad enough. Copperheads or rattlers? My heinie wasn’t showing up for that.
As soon as the service was over, I ran out the door, Violet and Elva not far behind. Cloda stopped to shake hands with the preacher.
When we were halfway home Violet said, “Try the Methodist Church next time you get a hankering for religion, Cloda. But I’ll get a book from the library and read next week.”
“Get one for me too,” Elva said. “One about animals maybe, but nothing about anything that hisses.”
“I ain’t gonna take part in no snake handling,” Cloda said. “But it might not be a bad idea to come again a time or two and see about maybe settling in.”
“That girl from the trunk factory, the one who told you about Church of Eternal Holiness?” Violet said. “I hate to say this, Cloda, but she’s as crazy as a chicken visiting a fox den.”
I didn’t say it out loud, but I kind of wondered about my big sister too.“Tell you what,” I said. “If you try the Methodist Church on Beech Street, I’ll go with you. Besides, I heard they got some pretty good cake bakers over there. And the preacher’s sweet as fresh peaches.”
“Well, guess I could think on that, Toy.” Cloda stopped walking and looked at me like I brought up a whole new idea.
Violet rolled her eyes.
I didn’t know nothing about the church on Beech. I made it all up. And I didn’t sit still that good in school, so an extra hour in church didn’t sound like such a great idea. But you just got to help your family sometimes.
“Toy, are you out of your mind?” Elva asked kicking a pebble back into the gravel road.
“Probably.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll read my book after we get back,” Elva said.
“You aren’t leaving me at home with wicked stepmother,” Violet shrieked.
Cloda smiled like she’d just won a blue ribbon.
We didn’t follow through as good as we could have. After the first time or two, we couldn’t be counted on to listen to a preacher who didn’t have no Kentucky sweetness in his voice. But, Violet, Elva, and me remember that day we saved our big sister from seeing Mama way too soon because she wandered into a rattlesnake pit.
We reckon Mama would be proud of us. Though Mama was proud of us, even when we didn’t do nothing special at all.
originally published in Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel No. 17, Theme: Tricksters, Truthtellers, and Lost Souls
Posted in poetry, tagged choice, daily news, family, gun violence, hope, inspiration, Maya Angelou quote, perspective, toddler innocence, violence on November 8, 2023| Leave a Comment »
“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.” Maya Angelou Hope in Small Doses The day’s news. The details of a bloody shooting rise with the same tone of voice a stranger would use to give directions to a local parking lot. Then a commercial appears advising a product to prevent hair loss. Compassion and energy struggle to appear in human form. Then a toddler grandchild reaches out with a smile made of fresh energy. A closer place of love emerges. And while I can’t make the world kinder, I can begin by planting hope into this moment.
Posted in poetry, tagged choice, Framl Sonnenberg quote, inspiration, perspective, positive attitudes, self image on October 16, 2023| 1 Comment »
Dear Broken Concrete “Some people think that if they don’t know their faults, they don’t have any.” ― Frank Sonnenberg, Listen to Your Conscience: That's Why You Have One I don’t know why I get stuck staring at you when the rest of the path is clear enough to get where I need to go. One moment or word blasts a past human break covered by years, opened unexpectedly now and then. Perhaps it doesn’t matter that the imperfection appears. Only that blue sky lives above it. Look up, see, I finally say, then listen to a child’s laughter in a neighboring yard. A cardinal chirping its unique song. Then I can go to the next turn in the road and sing a fresh verse on solid ground.
Posted in poetry, tagged choice, community, Franz Kafka quote, haiku, inspiration, nature, perspective, racism, tanka on October 2, 2023| Leave a Comment »
I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party and I attended with my real face. (Franz Kafka) WE CALL IT VISION Sometimes the honest heart speaks within a limited space. The first poem, a haiku, carries 5, 7, 5 syllables. The next five lines, a tanka, delivers truth in 5, 7, 5, 7, 5 syllables. DURING A BLACK-AND-WHITE TV SCENE ” I don’t see color,” says a white man to lynchings as he leaves the room. COMMUNITY The flower sees bees coming and opens petals. Possibilities. Plant and insect share alike. Even as the stem stands still.
Posted in poetry, tagged appreciation, childhood innocence, children's art, gratitude, Henry Ward Beecher quote, inspiration on September 26, 2023| Leave a Comment »
"Children are the hands by which we take hold of heaven." ~ Henry Ward Beecher When Real Can Be Almost Anything You tape scraps of multicolored paper to white cardboard. With pink, blue, orange, and violet squares you design hair. A purple crayon creates a squat body. Outstretched arms wear six fingers on one hand and four on the other. Your signature justifies to the right. You draw off your canvas and onto paper below. I smile, pleased by an image too powerful for a single square of paper, created by chi too fresh to know its power. Imagination, the world under control and capable of change and fun, time made of this moment only and how it can be turned into play. Until reality challenges its optimism.
Posted in poetry, tagged Diggers by Terry Pratchett, encouragement, inspiration, kiln, perspective, pottery, serendipity, Terry Pratchett on September 10, 2023| 2 Comments »
Inside the Kiln “The trouble with having an open mind, of course, is that people will insist on coming along and trying to put things in it.” ― Terry Pratchett, Diggers Nan stares at her pottery in progress as if it were a foreign object. Another student asks why she appears distracted and sullen. "Too much going on," she answers, rather than saying my father died. "The classmate answers, "Have you tried melatonin? Meditation? Acupuncture?" Nan answers, "I consider the source of all suggestions." The critic leaves to finish some work at the kiln. Another student touches Nan's shoulder. She pauses then says, "The kiln’s fire finishes our creations. Too bad that same flame can mean incinerate, or char, or..." The student speaks softer, "Yesterday I met a girl who said she was your sister. She told me something. I have known a similar too-much-going-on. Can we simplify it together?"
Posted in poetry, tagged blindness, choice, driving, gratitude, inspiration, perspective, positive attitudes, the disabled, traffic on September 3, 2023| Leave a Comment »
“When we establish human connections within the context of shared experience we create community wherever we go.” ― Gina Greenlee, Postcards and Pearls: Life Lessons from Solo Moments on the Road On Route Another traffic light turns red. As I wait, I notice a man at a bus stop. He leans on a white cane and faces the direction the bus will take him. His ears know the unique sound of a bus. . On the other side of the street a young couple take turns holding a baby too young to lift an almost bald head. A teenager guides an older woman across the street. The elderly woman stares ahead toward the curb, while the younger person watches her companion’s feet. The light turns green. I know the lane patterns ahead. This is familiar territory. Yet, the space feels different, made of intangible pieces, concrete connected to spirit. illustration made from public domain image and cut paper
Posted in poetry, tagged choice, depression, gratitude, inspiration, metaphor, one day at a time, poetry, positive attitudes, the emotional life on August 26, 2023| 1 Comment »
Life is too short to be wasted in finding answers. Enjoy the questions. Paulo Coelho One square block of sidewalk. Sometimes it appears sufficient, a part of a whole. On other days the pocked places rise. And the darker pebbles act as if they are meant to rule my spirit. As if the promise of lighter squares on the path ahead couldn’t exist. I’m stuck. One more step, then one more until the walk becomes a journey again.
Posted in short story, tagged acceptance, birth defects, compassion, disabilities, encouragement, experience, inspiration, Maya Angelou quote, positive thinking on August 20, 2023| Leave a Comment »
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. Maya Angelou
ONE, TWO, THREE, GO
The other side of the bus door would become a faraway adventure to another state. Faraway, a vague notion that showed up only in Lucy’s story books. The little-kid kind. The ones she could read. She told her boss at the thrift shop where she had worked that she wanted to wait for the bus alone. She would be okay. The new place wanted her, and that made her happy. She could be the strong middle-aged woman her body said she was.
She felt the stare of a small boy who could be five, standing next to her. She knew what he saw. An awning-sized forehead, small green-pea-sized eyes, and a jaw as square and pocked as a sidewalk block. Didn’t matter. Bigger people stared, too. Maybe grown folk weren’t as blunt about it as kids. They were all rude.
Lucy’s mother had a troubled pregnancy and delayed birth. Lucy’s brain didn’t get sufficient oxygen. She understood why that made her learning slow, kind of. But she couldn’t see why she had to be ugly, too.
She turned toward the boy, slightly. He paused, then buried his head into the shoulder of the woman with him. She leaned toward the other side of the long bench, her eyes closed, and either sighed or moaned. Lucy couldn’t tell. She stayed focused on the door that would open soon, her exit from the impossible, thanks to the kind woman she worked for at the thrift store, who saw her frequent bruises and wouldn’t stop asking about them.
But Lucy didn’t have the money for rent and all the bills that came with living alone. She had to stay with her father. He apologized later. Said he missed Lucy’s mother, and couldn’t get over her death. That’s what set him off. How could a woman as good as his wife get cancer? But he wasn’t nice to her before she died, not that Lucy could remember. And apologies didn’t help when, in a drunken rage, he stepped on Lucy’s chest and broke a rib.
Lucy cried in the bathroom at work because each breath brought a nasty stab. That’s when her boss insisted that she tell the truth. Now. The police came in, and her father ended up in jail. Summer and winter mingled inside Lucy, next to the hurt, both relief and rejection. But her boss turned her confusion into spring. She had a friend who owned a sprawling three-hundred-acre farm. She offered Lucy a home and a job in her house. However, Lucy would have to move to Indiana, more than a hundred miles away. The friend would pay for the bus ticket. Lucy’s boss added a word new to Lucy: stipulation. Her father could not visit until he had been paroled for two years and sprouted wings and a halo.
Lucy fidgeted with the handle on her suitcase. She hoped she had everything she needed: a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts and sweatshirts, a worn coat wadded into a ball, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. A half-dozen storybooks.
She looked into the glass door of the parked bus but got lost in her own reflection and winced, frightened. Did her boss tell her friend how ugly she was?
The little boy got up from the bench and came closer to her this time. He tapped her on the elbow. “Scuse me,” he said. “You going to Shelbyville, too?”
Lucy nodded.
“My Uncle Red brought me and my mommy here, but he had to go to work. She can’t walk good. Can you help her get on the bus?” he said. “Please?”
A man disconnected the guard rope.“Be glad to,” Lucy said, noticing the woman for the first time, as she leaned into a worn suitcase and grabbed a cane. The woman breathed as if she were in pain.
“It’s a long ride to Indiana,” Lucy said as she took a few steps forward. “If you like, I have some storybooks with me. My favorites.” “Okay,” the boy said. “I got some, too. Let’s share.”Lucy linked an arm around the younger woman’s waist as she looked at Lucy as if she had wings and a halo instead of a broken face. A good omen.
The line paused as tickets were checked.
Lucy whispered. “I have a small pillow with me. It’s new and clean. Your mama can use it. But can I ask if you or your mom have trouble with your eyes? Is your vision okay?”
“We see just fine,” the boy answered. “Why do you ask?”
She laughed and turned to the boy’s mother. “Okay, ma’am, My name is Lucy. I’m glad to meet you. One, two, three, go.” For both of us.
terrypetersen 