The Art Behind An Artifact

Fandango’s one word prompt today is ARTIFACT. I’ve always had a vague sense of what this word means, and have always associated it with archeology, but now that I’m to use it, I decided to look it up and be certain.

Artifact: same as artefact. Oka-a-a-y.

Artefact: something made by human beings. Nelson Gage says: “Anything made by or anything caused by human activity.” Hence my car, though a 2014, is an artifact. From the plastic and steel of the body to the vinyl interior and all the circuitry: 100% created by humans. (Albeit with naturally occurring raw materials.)

This word made me think of a song from my teen years: “In the Year 2525.” The idea being: the world was in such a mess in the 1960s, can man survive much longer? That song is an artifact now and we’ve survived an awful lot since. I read about US voters disgruntled with their current president; they can comfort themselves that the country will survive him, too. Our great-grandchildren will someday read about President Trump and other famous people of today in their history texts. Perhaps with pride; perhaps with pain, but a done deal.

They’ll hear about us and our lives in that same sense, and maybe a few of our artifacts will be displayed. Like when I pull out our faded hand-stitched quilt and say to my grandchildren, “This is the quilt your great-great grandma made.” My own grandmother made blankets, too, but very plain patches of whatever, quite dark and lacking any sense of art. My mother-in-law was skilled at handcrafts and I have a number to show the grands now.

I made an artifact the other day, and I have full confidence that it will survive in my family, “even unto the fourth generation.” My grandson came over and wanted to paint something, so I found a flimsy box, made of the lightest, cheapest wood, and let him go at it with my acrylic paints. I predict that box won’t survive even the first generation, but he had fun.

While he was painting that I found a small rock in my collection and started painting it orange. (I pick up smooth, bug-shaped stones as I happen to see ones I think are suitable for painting.) Later I drew black stripes for wings, dots for eyes, and likewise dotted the back. A mouth shaped like W. When I was done my grandson pronounced it “Neat” and took it home with him.

Someday when our civilization has turned to dust, some archeologist may dig up this area, find this funny-looking rock and say (in whatever language will be used here at that time), “Hey, people, look! A petrified bug! We’ve never discovered a fossil like this before.”

Then someone examine it, say hmmm… and send it for testing. It will be revealed that this is not a bug at all; it’s simply a rock covered with some kind of acrylic paint used extensively by the people of that ancient civilization.

In the year 2525 my bug may be unearthed and some news reporter — they never change, you know — may write up the article announcing: “Archeologists digging in the ancient ruins of a long-lost prairie village have unearthed the painted icon of some rare bug. They believe it was created by some ancient fossil.”

Almost Everybody

I wrote this fun piece in response to Fandango’s one-word prompt for today: ALMOST. Check out his blog to see the other responses, or add your own.
I was especially prompted to write this tale by Frank Prem’s not-quite-haiku, Almost a Cockatoo. You’ll see the link to his blog, Seventeen Syllable Poetry, listed among the others.  🙂

ALMOST EVERYBODY HAS A PAIR

“Mom, I need new running shoes.”

“So what else is new?” was Dad’s comment.

“You just got new shoes back in spring, Brandi.” Mom reminded her.

“That’s right,” Dad agreed. “And as I recall, they cost me a wallet full of bills.”

“Mom, Dad. Listen to me! The shoes you got me back in spring were El-cheapos. Now they’re like, RAGS! They’re decomposing with every step. I’m gonna get gangrene if I keep wearing them. I REALLY need new shoes.” Brandi stuck out a foot to show the evidence and wrinkled her nose. “I need something a little higher quality.”

Dad jabbed a finger in her direction. “The way you and your sister go through shoes, all we can afford are El-Cheapo brands. Do I dare ask how much ‘a little higher quality’ is going to set me back?”

Brandi rolled her eyes. “Oh, Dad. All you think of is money! You don’t understand how…how…ostracized I feel wearing Excess-Economy brand when all the other kids are wearing these cool new TECH-tonic ‘Earthmovers’. Kids who have ‘em say they really grip the ground and…”

“And all your classmates are wearing these?” Mom asked.

Brandi’s sister Trena nodded in agreement. “I’ll need a new pair soon, too.”

“Even some of the poorest kids,” said Brandi. “And they’re, like, $220 a pair.”

Dad’s eyes popped open. “Two hundred and…” He whistled. “And everybody in your class has a pair? Except some of the poorest kids, of course — like you two.”

Brandi stuck out her chin.“Well, yeah. Do you want us to be scorned by the whole school? Mocked on Facebook because our shoes are rotting on our feet?”

Mom looked at Dad and raised her eyebrows. Dad looked at Mom and raised his eyebrows. Somehow they both managed to maintain a ‘bank-manager-considers-loan’ sobriety.

“We’ll see.” Mom said. “Now that I think of it, Carrie’s cousin volunteers at school Thursday mornings. I’ll ask her what she thinks of these news shoes everybody’s wearing. You called them Earthmovers?”

Brandi nodded, squirmed, and sent her sister a desperate glance. “Well, almost everybody. At least five kids in my class have a pair. But the rest are getting them as soon as…”

Dad grinned.  “As soon as they can talk their folks into saving them from mocking and scorn?” He winked at Mom.

Brandi and Trena gave each other a meaningful look and rolled their eyes as if to say, “Parents. They’re so…archaic!”

More For-Fun Haiku

mission accomplished
Henry the Hereford rests in the shade
bull dozer

Local farmers plan their herd’s “seasonal activities” well. In the pastures around us now we’re seeing the offspring from last summer’s mating season. Though around here the cattle are almost all Black Angus.

Also noticed on a recent walk:

poplar shoots
punch holes in our driveway
a hostile takeover

Writing its memoir?

flick of my finger
sends the spider flying
scribbling its last line

Share Your World

There are a number of writing challenges and prompts in the blogging world, among them is Cee’s Share Your World, which she posts once a week. She posts a number of questions, some on the humorous side, supposedly to share some of our likes and dislikes with our readers.

Anyway, here’s her list of questions for this week and my responses:

You can have an unlimited supply of one thing for the rest of your life, what is it? Sushi? Scotch Tape?

Thinking along immaterial lines, I’d say “FRIENDS.” But in terms of actual things, my practical answer may contradict that noble aspiration. Just leave me in the Library — preferably with pens and stacks of notebooks, since you’re never supposed to scribble in library books.

Books

Pixabay

Teleportation or flying?

Teleportation is a sci-fi thing, where all your cells turn to — energy? — and are flung off to some other place or planet. Then you materialize again. Being fearful of the unknown, I’d worry that during teleportation my cells might get swirled around and I’d come together again with two arms on one side, or lose a foot in transit, or all my hair? Not a risk I’d ever take.

Besides, I love flying. One time, as the plane was taxiing down the runway full throttle  and the roar of the engines thrilled our ears, I turned to the fellow in a business suit sitting next to me and said, “Don’t you just love flying!” 🙂

He replied in a crisp British accent, “Personally, I find it nerve-wracking.” 😦
Oh well. Can’t please everybody.

Would you rather live where it only snows or the temperature never falls below 100 degrees?

winter street

Pixabay

I can’t take the heat…but to live where it only snows? To never have spring…never any nesting birds or flowers? Could I bear it?
In either case I’d be staying indoors, so my choice would be looking out at sand dunes or snowbanks. Hmm…

What did you appreciate or what made you smile this past week? Feel free to use a quote, a photo, a story, or even a combination.

Our private school put on a program of songs and skits Wednesday evening for the end of the school year. Lots of smiles and chuckles. Of course the highlight was watching our three grandchildren up on the stage doing their parts. The oldest is out of school already. Why do those school years fly by so fast?

Cat sleeping

Pixabay

We have two cats that both think my desk chair is the most comfortable and best-located seat in the house. I’ve evicted one or the other of them a dozen times this week, but all I need to do is go pour myself a coffee and when I get back…
(This gives my husband more smiles that it gives me. 😉 )

Boyhood Memory

by Edgar Guest

It used to be fun in the good old days
to rise at the dawn of day
and dig for worms for a fishing trip.
It used to be fun, I say,
for I swear that a robin who hovered near
knew just what we were about,
since he flew to the ground when the earth was turned
and begged us to toss one out.
Yes, it used to be fun to go fishing then,
but Time has rewritten my terms
of what pleasure is — and I never get up
to dig for a can of worms.

We’d sit on the dock and we’d swing our legs
all day in the blazing sun,
and a few small fish on a piece of string
was our ultimate dream of fun.
Then digging for worms was an easy task,
but I tried it a year ago
and the earth seemed hard as a city street
where the streams of traffic flow.
And I’d lost the knack of clutching a thing
that wriggles and twists and squirms,
so I said to myself: “You will never again
go digging at dawn for worms.”

I stuck to the task ‘til my hands grew sore,
I labored and toiled and wrought,
but the worms were scarce and no robins came,
and it wasn’t the fun I thought.
But a small boy said as we walked away:
“I’m wondering, Uncle Ed,
when there’s so much pleasure in getting up,
how can old folks stay in bed?”
I could only answer him this: “My lad,
all experience confirms
the dreadful fact that there comes a time
when it’s labor to dig for worms.”

From Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

Some of us who have grown old and stiff are finding that it’s labor to dig for any reason nowadays, though ‘nature’s call’ may still rouse us before dawn. 😉
Happy gardening, everyone.

Getting the Scoop

Many thanks to Rochelle for hosting this Friday Fictioneers group and faithfully sending us prompts to set our computer keys a-dancing.  CLICK HERE to join the fun. This morning before I even saw the prompt I was inspired to write something this time. Now how can I resist with such an opportune prompt?

This unique photo was submitted by Connie Gayer — possibly taken at her peril. At least I wouldn’t want to get that close to anyone with a shovelful of mud. I suspect the subject here will need a bath in more ways than one after this week is over. 😉

Photo c Connie Gayer

Book Review: Getting the Scoop

In this fabulous book gardening guru Russell Gayer gives valuable tips on growing everything from soup to nuts. Readers will be impressed by the list of awards he expects to win.

Full color illustrations throughout. In this photo he demonstrates how to plant peanuts, a underground crop. According to Gayer, the deeper you plant them the more peanuts you’ll harvest.

He does warn readers, though: “Before working the soil you should verify with your city engineer’s office just how deep the sewer lines are installed in your area, if you want to produce nuts and not soup.”