The Comfort of a Plan B

With apologies to DIY husbands everywhere. We all have our limitations. 🙂

“Why spend money on a plumber? I can change these taps myself. Nothing to it,” Frank announced when Reyanne showed him one of the kitchen taps was leaking into the cupboard below.

“Of course you can,” Reyanne assured him.

Half an hour later he returned from Home SuperMart with a new set of taps and began to study the instructions.

Reyanne was quite comfortable with the situation. Frank meant well, though being a shoe salesman, his plumbing skills weren’t top notch. But Plan B was in place. While Frank was out buying the taps, she’d phoned several local plumbers and found one who could come on short notice. She’d put the man on speed dial.

Frank wandered out to the garage and came back with a pipe wrench that he tightened around the drain under the sink. Before long he gave a grunt of frustration. “It isn’t supposed to be this hard to get apart.”

Reyanne grabbed her phone when she heard a metallic clank followed by the sound of water splashing. She was already hitting speed dial when Frank yelled, “We’re going to need to get a plumber!”

The plumber agreed to come ASAP, then instructed her how to shut off the main valve in the basement. She managed to do that while Frank got a grip on the water hoses trying to splash him.

Plan B is a wonderful invention, Reylene thought,

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It’s Payback Time

The Friday Fictioneers prompt has come again, so here’s my offering. Many thanks for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for faithfully carrying on as leader, mentor, moderator of our group. If you’d like to participate in this weekly storytelling marathon, check out her blog for more details. This week our thanks also goes to Sarah Potter for the prompt photo.

My story was inspired by some testimonies I’ve read from children who made it to the big times in their particular fields and wanted to return the love and support they’d received from their parents.

PHOTO © Sarah Potter

Payback Time

Dad came whenever he could. On his feet all day, came home exhausted, yet after supper he’d get me to the game and cheer from the stands. We barely managed on his salary — but my equipment was a priority.

One day I promised, “When I make the League, Dad, you’re outta that factory.”

He smiled. “I’m looking forward to that day.”

I gave the game all I had. For him. For his faith in me. When I signed my first contract I said, “Toss them work shoes, Dad. It’s payback time.”

He and mom are holidaying in Phoenix right now.

Tuesday Tales

Hello everyone! I’d like to give a special welcome to all the new readers who have “Followed” me this summer and fall so far. I hope you’ll find some enjoyable and interesting articles, poems, etc., here.

Time has moved on and fall has definitely arrived in our area. Most of the fields have been harvested, now golden round bales of straw sit in what were once wheat fields around us. Sandhill cranes have returned, stopping to glean for a few weeks on their way south. They are particularly fond of the field across the road so we often see them and their glub-glub-glubbing fills the air. It’s amazing how such big birds can sound like bullfrogs!

Our weather has been terrific for the farmers; today we’re having the first rain in over a month. My sympathy to those of you who have been swirled and tossed in storms and had the Caribbean Sea dumped on you. I hope you’re getting some sunny days so you can dry out and pick up the pieces. We, on the other hand, are hoping for enough rain to fill our sloughs again; a lot of them have been bone dry for several weeks now.

Our children and grandchildren came over for Sunday dinner and afternoon — always an enjoyable way to pass the time — and in the evening we went to listen to the young people singing at the Villa retirement home where I used to cook. This they do on the third Sunday evening of every month and it’s inspiring to sit and listen as they sing a dozen songs or so. I spent a couple of hours there this morning, too, visiting with one senior lady having coffee and helping do a jigsaw they had on the go.

I haven’t been doing much book promotion since Silver Morning Song went live on Amazon and Kobo, but I did join Goodreads last week. Today I listed my books in their author promo program. Trouble is, visiting all these helpful sites like Goodreads and LinkedIn takes time, especially reading over the valuable discussions on how to write and market your work. I find lists of great books others are reading plus other authors like myself who are eager to have someone read and review their book. So I volunteered to write a review for one book through Goodreads and one through Story Cartel.

Speaking of book promotions, Pastor J S Park sent out an e-mail saying that since this was Suicide Awareness Prevention Month, he was giving away his book about depression: How Hard It Really Is. Check his blog for details:  Book on Depression free this month.

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s also National Literacy Awareness Month in the US. I’m thinking we finally won’t have enough months for all the special events that want to have one of their own.

Yesterday we took a trip to the city and I walked down the aisle at the Dollarama seeing all the Christmas decorations on display already. By now the Halloween stuff is almost passé. This does get a little ridiculous. 😦

I asked a question on a Goodreads forum this morning; now I’ll ask it here as well. I’d like to study some good examples writing in the omniscient point of view. That is, a story told as if by a “narrator” watching the drama, describing the scenes, making observations about the characters and what they’re thinking, but not as a character in the story. Do you have any suggestions of novels written this way?

So what are your goals for the next few months? Leave a comment and tell me what you have planned.

Apple Tree

In honor of the US National Literacy Awareness Month I’ll publish
this verse from one of America’s best-loved poets.

THE APPLE TREE

by Edgar Guest

When an apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat,
there isn’t any structure in the land that’s got it beat.
There’s nothing man has builded with the beauty or the charm
that can touch the simple grandeur of the monarch of the farm.
There’s never any picture from a human being’s brush
that has ever caught the redness of a single apple’s blush.

When an apple tree’s in blossom it is glorious to see,
but that’s just a hint, at springtime, of the better things to be;
that is just a fairy promise from the Great Magician’s wand
of the wonders and the splendors that are waiting just beyond
the distant edge of summer; just a forecast of the treat
when the apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat.

Architects of splendid vision long have labored on the earth
and have raised their dreams in marble and we’ve marveled at their worth;
long the spires of costly churches have looked upward at the sky;
rich in promise and in beauty, they have cheered the passer-by.
But I’m sure there’s nothing finer for the eye of man to meet
than an apple tree that’s ready for the world to come and eat.

There’s the promise of the apples, red and gleaming in the sun,
like the medals worn by mortals as rewards for labors done,
and the big arms stretched wide open with a welcome warm and true
in a way that sets you thinking it’s intended just for you.
There is nothing with a beauty so entrancing, so complete,
as an apple tree that’s ready for the world to come and eat.

From the book A Heap O’ Livin’
© 1916 by the Reilly & Britton Company

 

 

A Closet of Memories

Another Friday Fictioneers prompt has come. This group is graciously hosted by the longsuffering Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who blogs at Addicted to Purple. Check her blog for information about how to become part of this group and respond to the prompts. Our photo prompt has been donated by Kelvin Knight. Bear in mind that this is his photo and must not be used for any other purpose without his permission.

I looked at the prompt this morning and thought, “This is great!” No murder and mayhem in this photo; it should generate some really homey, upbeat stories. So what delicious aspect can I write about in connection with home-made bread?

Sad to say, the story that popped into my mind a moment later is one I didn’t want to write. I hate going to places like this but I feel this is the one I should tell. Genre for this one is contemporary fiction, based on a true account of a young woman’s loathing for white bread and how she discovered the reason behind her disgust.

I’ve had a few similar experiences where I felt an intense fear or negative reaction to something for years until I finally asked God, “Why?” And got a clear answer. I believe many children experience things that leave them with a closet full of dark memories. It’s so awesome, then, when you finally open that door, the skeleton inside gives one last rattle and disintegrates. The place is swept clean, the dust swirls away and you’re so glad to be rid of the mess that you feel like dancing.

So here’s my tale:

PHOTO © Kelvin M. Knight

Memories Locked Away

Pam stares at the slice Tim decorated. A wave of nausea chokes her. That heart! He doesn’t realize…

It’s just bread. Get a grip! But she barely makes it to the toilet. Chucking her breakfast, she wails, “Why, God?”

Memories click into focus. Mom never home. No food. Older brother, bread in hand, luring her…she was so hungry! Ugly stains on the bedroom ceiling…waves of shame and disgust. The bread her reward.

Then a gentle voice says, “These memories you’ve locked away, I’ll take them now.”

Waves of freedom overwhelm her. Her spirit dances like a sailboat in light breeze.

Stroke of Bad Luck

Levi groaned and shifted in bed. Groggily he opened his eyes. Man, the light hurt! Then he was jolted awake by the realization that someone was lying beside him.

He turned to see who it was and his eyes opened wide. Who was SHE? He sat up and looked around the strange room. Was he drunk? Why did his head feel so funny? He rubbed his face with his hands and noticed…a wedding ring!

Whoever she was sat up and kissed his cheek. “Morning, love.”

He rolled out of bed and stood, gripping the corner of a dresser. His glance fell on a studio photo, a wedding picture. Him and her. When? Why couldn’t he remember? He touched the picture. “Uh, how long have we been…married?”

He heard a little gasp. “It was two years last month. Levi, are you okay? Is your headache worse?”

“Headache?” he echoed and shook his head.

“You went to bed with a headache last night, remember?”

He felt no pain now but something wasn’t right. Nothing in the room looked familiar. He eyed the picture. At least he’d picked a pretty wife. Her voice was nice, too. What was her name?

He glanced out the window and the whiteness startled him. “It’s winter!”

“Maybe you should lie down again, Honey.” She sounded hesitant, worried.

Carefully he turned toward her. “My parents? Where are they? I need to see them.” Were they even still alive?

“Dad will be leaving for work about now, but Mom’ll be there at home.” She stood up and looked at him, her dark eyes reflecting her fear. “Sure. Let’s go see her. And maybe you should see a doctor, too?” She grabbed a robe and left the room.

Levi found the bathroom and had a shower. Then he hunted through dresser drawers to find clothes. He picked out some familiar ones and put them on.

When he found his way to the kitchen later he saw a laptop on the table, open to a screen headed “Signs of Stroke.” He pondered that word. Is that what had happened to him?

Writer’s note:

The dialogue is fiction, but a friend told me about a 30-year-old neighbour of hers who had a stroke in the night and five years of his life’s memory banks were completely wiped out. Not only had he gotten married a couple of years before and bought a little house, but he’d also started a business. Life can hand you a real whammy sometimes.

Teaching Mom to Drive

One day Kenneth’s mother decided that, since she’d soon be an empty-nester, she’d better learn how to drive. So she talked Kenneth, her last son at home, into giving her a few lessons while he had summer holidays.

It intrigued him that Mom wanted to learn to drive in her “old age” — after all she was almost 55 and to a young man of nineteen that was way over the hill. But it was a smart idea: some day she might need to know how, so  he agreed and let her take the wheel while he instructed.

The lesson did not go smoothly. Mom was so nervous in traffic; she kept forgetting the simplest rules; parallel parking was a lost cause; she didn’t know which streets were one-ways. to top it off she went through a stop sign and got a ticket. After an hour in the car with his mother, Kenneth blew out a long puff of exasperation. He was in for a torturous ordeal before she finally got her license.

After they got home he told his mom he just didn’t have the patience for this project. Anyway, she’d never become a good driver, so why not just accept it? Others in the family could take her where she needed to go if Dad couldn’t. If she persisted she’d likely have an accident and he’d be a nervous wreck.

His father was home by that time and listened quietly for awhile, then said, “Too bad you don’t remember the marvelous patience your mother had with you when you were learning to feed yourself. How many “accidents” she had to clean up when you were being potty-trained. Or how you’d wobble around and she’d rush to comfort you when you took a tumble.”

Kenneth flushed, stared at his shoes for a few minutes, then he said, “Sorry, Mom. Do you want to go out for another lesson tomorrow?”