Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts

Monday, November 13, 2017

Growth of a River - flash fiction


It was a special time. That time of life when things were wonderful and new. That time when adults were still incredible fonts of wisdom and knowledge. That time when each day brought amazing things never before seen.

Gemma woke that morning, instantly fully awake and with the energy another might need a couple of coffees to attain. She threw on the clothes she and her mother had carefully picked out the night before and ran to her door only to stop short just before the exit. A quick about face, a check in her mirror (Gee, how she loved it!) and a redo of her shirt to make it frontside front, then out the door!

Down the hall, bursting without pause through her parent’s bedroom door and launching herself onto the foot of the bed. “Get up! It’s Missus-pee Day!”

Louise cracked one eye but it was Lance who spoke reaching down to pull Gemma up between her parents, “The River is still sleeping, Silly! Maybe we should have breakfast and let it wake up before we drive out. Whaddya say?”

An “Awww” escaped Gemma before her brain even processed the information. Then it hit her as a good idea and she said, or rather shouted loud enough to make Lance wince, “Yeah! Let’s have Corn Flakes!” Before either parent could groggily respond, Gemma was squirreling back to the foot of the bed, plopping to the floor and racing out.

Her eyes still mostly closed, Louise pushed the covers back and rolled to a sit. She mumbled and Lance understood more than heard, “I guess we’d better try to keep up.” She padded off to the bathroom. Lance pulled himself out of bed and staggered with increasing stability toward the kitchen.

In the kitchen Gemma was already halfway toward breakfast. She had a plastic bowl, a spoon and the box of corn flakes on the island and was pulling on the refrigerator door. The seal was more than her  3-year-old arms could overcome despite her determination and Lance had to give a friendly assist.

“Thanks, Dad!” as she pulled the half-gallon jug off the lowest shelf and carried it in both hands to the island. Reaching above her head she carefully placed the jug on the island, tongue sticking out of her mouth in concentration. Then a quick scramble into the chair and a satisfied “Hmmph!”

Lance flipped on the coffee-maker and moved over to help pour milk and snare a couple wayward corn flakes making a production of bringing them to his mouth and chomping on them to a giggle from Gemma. Then he walked back the way he’d come as Louise slipped past and grabbed a couple mugs from hooks above the sink. Her eyes were still not fully open.

An hour later Gemma was still at full speed but at least Lance and Louise were able to keep pace as they piled into their Integra and negotiated the winding streets of the sub-division out to the highway. Louise drove and Lance sang alternatively silly songs and classic songs with Gemma by turns singing gleefully along and giggling at the edge of uncontrollability. The first hour flew by.

Gradually the songs became less boisterous on Gemma’s end and her gaze wandered more to the passing scenery. Finally she bottomed out, “When is the Missus-pee?”

Louise gave Lance a knowing look and said, “Another hour, luv. Maybe it’s time to count the red cars, but only the red ones, ok? I see one! I have one red car. Can you count more than me?”

“Yeah!” screeched Gemma and was instantly absorbed in the game scanning the road ahead for every oncoming car. Soon Gemma was up to nine, Louise had six and poor Lance, on the passenger side in the back seat, had only counted two.

Gemma cried, “Ten! Now let’s count blue cars!” And so it went for another twenty minutes as cars of color after color in the girl’s repertoire were duly counted as they headed south on the state highway away from the headwaters of the Mississippi.

As the game wound down Gemma agreed to watch the country passing by carefully identifying the corn fields from the soybeans and wheat but needing help on some of the others. Hay and alfalfa and potatoes were all differentiated but they ran into some trouble discerning the hops, the rye, and the oats. A stinky turkey farm zipped past and a couple still functioning dairy farms were noted by the cattle lazing in the sun.

Then the first sign flashed by and Lance said softly, “There, Gemma, Mississippi Headwaters ten miles.”

“Yayyyy! Can I wear my water shoes now?”

Lance dug into the bag they brought, his hands reaching past the snacks and the water bottles to find Gemma’s water shoes. By the time he’d pulled them from the depths of the bag Gemma’s sandals had been kicked off to slam into the back of Louise’s seat and carom onto the floor, just missing Lance’s head as he bent over the bag.

She excitedly kicked her feet making Lance’s job doubly difficult to secure her feet into their snug-fitting water shoes. With his long experience Lance deftly snared first the left foot and then the right and stuffed each foot into its waiting shoe. Gemma never missed a beat and Louise was parking the car as the last shoe was successfully placed.

Only one admonishment was necessary to keep Gemma next to her paents and not bolting across the parking lot alone but she still nearly dragged them both to the gate and down the trail. When they arrived at the small stream gurgling out of the lake that stretched out in a clear sun-lit vista, though, there was trouble.

“Where’s the Missus-pee?” Gemma demanded.

“This is it! This is where the river is born!” said Louise.

“But it’s too little,” Gemma insisted. “The Missus-pee is humongous.”  And she spread her arms wide above her head.

Lance tried, “But the river grows just like you. It starts small like you did when you were born and gets big as it goes.”

“But I’m older! The river here is the same years old as the one by us!”

“Rivers grow as they flow,” Louise tried alliteration. “The Mississippi is old because it wanders, like Grandpa…”

“Or Mommy before she has her coffee!” This got Lance a sardonic look from Louise.

“But it grows the further it goes. Feel it move.” Louise bent to touch the shallow, swiftly moving water. “More water pours in all the time as it flows, making the river grow.”

Gemma frowned. She did not like this much but she was willing to consider this unforeseen development. She walked into the water and splashed a bit. That made everything feel a bit better. She watched a bug spiral downstream, caught in the splashing and watched the other people as they variously stood, walked, and tip-toed in the water. They all seemed to think this was the Mississippi.

“Can we see the Missus-pee grow?” She asked.


Louise and Lance exchanged a knowing look, turned in unison to Gemma and nodded. They spent the rest of the day meandering like the river from town to town, bridge to bridge and watched the Mississippi grow from its rivulet at Itasca to its breadth at St. Paul. 

Monday, December 16, 2013

Christmas Morning - a seasonal short story


Christmas morning

I had been dreaming. She was pretty and said all the right things and made all the right moves. But suddenly there was a screech from outside my dream and a weight crashed into my no longer sleeping chest.

“Daddy! Daddy! DaddY! Santa was here! Santa was here!” in two simultaneous voices, one directly over my head and one slightly to the left.

My eyes fluttered open to see Meghan, my 7-year-old, jumping up and down next to the bed, a huge smile on her face, and James, 5, with a similar smile hugging me.

James rolled off the bed and nearly onto his sister and they both grabbed my left hand which was outside the blankets, pulling hard.

“Come see!” they screeched in excited unison and I let myself be pulled out of the warm bed and into the early morning chill.

The kids alternately pulled my hand and ran ahead a few steps out the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room. Under the small blue spruce decorated with a mixture of store-bought ornaments and pre-school/elementary art ornaments, was exactly what Meghan and James had asked Santa for – a gleaming red fire truck with flashing lights and a Molly Pitcher doll.

James immediately had to show me how the lights flashed as he pushed the truck across the floor toward the kitchen, making siren noises and terrifying the cat who was just trying to watch the festivities from a corner. Simultaneously Meghan was explaining how Molly was awake and ready to help “chase the Redcoats!”

I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have to. The two of them raced through their imaginary adventures, giving me a continuous, loud, and excited, minute by minute detail. I dutifully caught the eye of first one then the other and nodded and smiled as they raced through their events. A smile, much smaller than theirs, but with the wistful remembrances of Christmases long gone, played over my face.

Once the first burst of activity subsided both of them asked, hopefully, if they could open “just ONE more present?!”

The answer, as they knew it would be, was no, they had to wait, and wouldn’t they like some waffles?

After the obligatory, and momentary, vocalization of disappointment, both eagerly agreed to waffles. James raced into the kitchen first, yelling, “I’ll get the eggs!” while Meghan quickly pulled out the small stepstool while exclaiming, “I’ll get the mix!”

Moving more slowly, I cautioned James to be careful with the eggs and Meghan to be careful climbing and pulled the battered waffle maker from its perch high above the stove. It was a Christmas tradition, started with my first married Christmas, to have waffles before opening gifts. That memory, flashing through as I gripped the waffle iron, just me and Denise in our tiny first apartment, caused a hitch in my throat.

Almost before I noticed the catch in my throat my attention was drawn to the drama near the fridge as James struggled to pull the egg carton out without toppling the  container of leftover rice  that rested above. He, of course, despite his best effort, toppled the rice onto the floor. Fortunately the lid stayed tight and his grip on the eggs was true. Triumphantly he handed me the eggs and raced back out of the kitchen to snatch up the fire truck once again. I stooped to put the rice back in the fridge and close the door while Meghan jumped off the stool and showered me with a light dusting of waffle mix shaken from the box with her impact with the floor.

She carefully placed the box on the counter next to the waffle maker and followed her brother into the living room, to swoop Molly Pitcher up in her arms and carry her swiftly to meet “everybody” in her room.

Cancer had taken Denise physically from us, but I still saw her every day, in Meghan and James and the traditions we had made in the few years we had had together. A tear formed in my eye, as it did every year, and I turned to the task at hand, hearing the squeals of joy from the other rooms, sad for what I/we had lost yet overwhelmingly happy for what I had.

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Book Review - How Bees Came to Make Chili


This is a lovely little book. Its theme is that everyone can do something well, they just need to keep trying.

Nubbiebee, the story's main character, suffers a life-changing injury and must find something new that he is good at. With the help of his friends and a lot of perseverance, he succeeds and, in the process, helps the entire hive.

The book is short (as is an excellent idea with children's picture books) and well illustrated by Patrick A. Siwik.

The book is recommended for pre-readers. Check it out at your preferred book buying venue!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Two (very) short stories

I’ve been a parent for over half my life, now. While that is not very remarkable, it does serve as an introduction. I like the job. It has a lot of aspects to it and I don’t do all of them well but it is the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. Like most parents, I’ve grown into the job with time and know I am a better parent now than when the first child was born. One of the things I’ve learned is to be active IN the lives of my kids. Today’s post is 2 (very) short stories on that theme of participating IN the life of your child.


Wexler


       Wexler studied the terrain through the cracks between the boulders
behind which he sat, propped against a flat slab of granite. His tan
polo shirt was plastered with sweat; a stray oak leaf stuck in his
short gray hair.
      The late afternoon sun dappled the scene in a deceptively peaceful
pattern.  Somewhere out there was the shooter who had barely missed a
few short minutes ago. Wexler saw nothing out of the ordinary.
      Undergrowth disturbed only by the slight movement of the wind, trees
likewise gently and naturally moving.  A sparrow landed in a bush 50
feet away and noisily burst into conversation.
      Wexler carefully levered himself up and through a slightly larger gap
between the rock and moved quickly another 30 feet behind a clump of
chokecherries. Just that short burst brought more sweat and hastened
his breathing – damn, he was more out of shape than he thought.
      Peering through the chokecherries he saw a cardinal’s brilliant red
plumage suddenly burst out of hiding in a stately elm and two smaller,
more nondescript birds at the same time from the same tree. Tracing
the line of the trunk to the ground he saw what he hoped: a human
figure clad head-to-toe in a camouflage jumper.
      Wexler crawled to a clump of new maples and drew up onto his knees in
a small depression behind them, bringing his gun up to his shoulder.
Just one mistake, he breathed to himself. The figure in camo was on
the move, cautiously edging from one tree to the next, a few long
strides at a time, forty feet away, thirty.
      The figure suddenly halted and swung its gun up. Wexler fired, center,
left, right, and rolled to his left, came up to a crouch, and raced 15
feet to another clump of maple saplings. Shots spattered his hiding
place and peppered the undergrowth in his trail. He fired another pair
of shots blindly and went to ground, counting slow five before raising
his head ever so slightly.
      His antagonist was barely visible behind a full-grown maple not ten
feet from Wexler’s previous position. Wexler dropped his head and
counted another five before peeking once more above the leaf litter
and grass.
      The figure in camo was inching along Wexler’s back trail, gun at the
ready in a deep crouch, carefully placing one foot forward making sure
to make no sound. Wexler eased his gun to a firing position just as
the other figure loosed three shots.  Wexler dropped the gun and
raised both hands over his head as he stood up slowly, then dropped
his right hand to clean the paint from his visor.
      The figure in camo reached one hand to pull the helmet off, revealing
a pretty, strawberry blonde of probably half Wexler’s 35 years. She
smiled. “Too slow, Dad!”
      Wexler laughed and took his daughter’s hand as they walked together
back to the staging area to go home.


Dichotomy

He just made a spectacular play
Determination and skill on display
From deep inside the pride swells over
But the impact! He’s hurt his shoulder.
The striker’s still down, his knee
The keeper waves off assistance, see.
He won the battle and despite the bruise
There’s a lot of game left so he’ll refuse
To show even a smidgen of weakness
It’s that macho, leadership toughness.
Now they’re carrying off the striker
While the keeper stretches out his shoulder
And what of me, what to do?
The pride of the play but concern too.
How hurt is he really, behind the motion?
Is it a drop or the whole ocean?
Play resumes and I watch closely
Fortunately it seems to be mostly
A discomfort not an agony
Not like the striker’s knee.
Oh, the dichotomy of a dad
Loving the good but dreading the bad.
So proud he’s growing up.
So sad he’s growing up.