Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #164 -- Worry!

"...do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'[...] do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things." Matt. 6:31 & 34 (NKJV) (italics mine)

When I read this week's prompt was worry, I immediately thought of my mother, the consummate worrier. I think her name is synonomous with worry. Now, my mom is a good Christian lady who faithfully reads her Bible each day. However, I am concerned her Bible must be missing the above scriptures, for she certainly has not heeded these words.

I will admit that some worry can be good, but only in small doses and only when used to produce positive behavior changes. But most worry is unhealthy, both emotionally and physically, and unproductive.

Worry causes self-induced pain and robs one of happiness. Dictionary.com defines the verb worry as "to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; to fret." I can't imagine why anyone, masochists excluded, would want to torment oneself.

Anyway, back to my dear mother. She worries about some of the most minor things.

"Do you think this corn is ok? The can has a dent. Are you sure it's ok?"

"I was supposed to take my calcium pill 15 minutes ago. Do you think it will be alright to take it now?"

"I shouldn't have eaten that second piece of cake. Do you think I've had too many trans fats today?" (This coming from a 102 pound lady who has low cholesterol, low blood pressure and excellent blood counts).

And every Christmas she feels compelled to announce, "I spent the same on everyone even tho' some of you don't have as many packages." She worries that someone might feel slighted.

I once bought her the book Don't Sweat the Small Stuff, but it didn't seem to help much. She continues to sweat. Meanwhile I am searching for some extra-strength anti-perspirant formulated to protect against the "small stuff."

Me--I try not to worry so much. I'm enjoying a waffle for breakfast as I write this post. It's a homemade waffle, covered with sweetned strawberries and topped with a mountain of flully white whipped cream! Sometimes I worry that I don't worry enough!

Visit Sunday Scribblings to see what others have to say about WORRY

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #163 -- Disconnected

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is disconnected

I awaken
disconnected
from the outside world

My mind
unfettered
from temporal things

I call
You answer

We walk together
in the secret garden
of my soul

My spirit
naked and unashamed
before You

Your arms
Strong and Mighty
around me

I bask
in Your love

You smile
at my innocence

I emerge
strengthened, refreshed...
Connected

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #161 -- Confession

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "confession."

Secret sins confessed
The naked soul emerges
Humbled by the truth

Sunday, April 26, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #160 -- Follow!

I had a little fun with this week's Sunday Scribblings promt: FOLLOW.

To my Blogger friends:

There are so many great blogs to FOLLOW;
Without them my life would be HOLLOW.

Your friendship indeed I do HALLOW,
And in your companionship WALLOW.

I sit in the shade of a WILLOW,
Resting my head on a PILLOW.

The joy within starts to BILLOW
Forming words which my heart would BELLOW,

"Mr. Blogspot, you're such a dear FELLOW.
You've brought me so many good friends to FOLLOW!"

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #158...Scary!

I’ve never considered myself a very brave person. I have many fears--some common, some unusual. I am frightened of birds, mice, grasshoppers and feathers. I’m also afraid of needles, blood, closed-in places and darkness.

A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting at the computer creating a Mafia Wars character for myself. Several Facebook friends had invited me to play the game, and I finally gave in. Normally a quiet, peace-loving person, I suddenly felt empowered at the thought of being a mobster.

I was ready to become a completely different person. I wanted to be a big, brawny man, and needed a name to fit my character. Let’s see…maybe I would be Guido. I would be mean, tough, feared by all, intimidated by none. I was flexing my Mafia muscles and feeling fearless when all of a sudden, I heard a blood curdling scream!

I was scared!

Then I realized the scream had come from me—not me the mobster, but me the little girl who was terrified of darkness.

The lights had gone out!

Immediately, the macho mobster melted away as I whimpered, “Help. Sunshine, give me my flashlight. Help me, please.”

Soon the lights came back on, and my heartbeat returned to normal. As quickly as he had disappeared, Guido materialized--this time wearing a sheepish grin.

Click on Sunday Scribblings to read more scary things.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #156...Aging

Aging
Is inevitable, or so they say,
But not for me today.

Today
I shall procrastinate
The aging process

Today
I shall indulge
My inner child

We shall laugh and play
And frolic in the sheer pleasure
Of life

Today
We have no time
For growing older

We have no time
To think of aging, as we plan
Our next adventure

Aging
Is it inevitable?
Not for me today.


Visit Sunday Scribblings to read more on aging.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #155 - " I Come From..."

I come from
The fertile darkness
Of earth’s womb--
A miniscule sprout,
Securely wrapped
In amniotic soil,
Protected
From battering winds
And pounding rains,
But ever growing
Stretching
Reaching
For the rays of sunlight.
Emerging finally
Bursting forth--
A tiny seedling.

To read more, visit Sunday Scribblings

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #153--Listen up!

"Listen up because this is important!"

For some reason, I struggled with this week's prompt. I couldn't think of a funny story and all the serious ideas seemed either cliched or preachy. Nothing profound here--just some simple thoughts expressed in rhyme. You may recoginize the meter and rhyme of the first stanza--it was borrowed from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem "Paul Revere's Ride."

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
Some words of wisdom, truthful and clear.
On the seventh of March, in two thousand nine,
Many have posted, now here is mine.
Oh please, Sunday Scribbler, do lend me an ear.

Each day is a gift, so cherish its hours;
On this pathway of life, search the thickets for flowers.
Live in the present, on the past do not dwell--
Life’s what you make it, be it heaven or hell.

Plan for the worst, but hope for the best;
Change what you can, to God leave the rest.
Never give up, work hard and persist.
When a foe reaches out, do not ever resist.

Count your blessings for sure, but don’t forget others.
Help the less fortunate; they too are your brothers.
Try to make peace and eliminate strife.
And, most important of all, just celebrate life.

Visit Sunday Scribblings to hear the important things others have to say

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #152: Lost

Gotten lost in the woods? Driving? Lost a child in a store? Lost something else of value -- found it again? Lost souls, lost innocence . . . write about the word "lost."

When I read this week's prompt was "lost," the first thing that came to mind were the words from the famous song Amazing Grace "I once was lost, but now I'm found." But what could I write about the song--I supposed most people already knew the story behind the song.

My second thought was about an incident that occured last fall when Sunshine and I were traveling through northern Arizona. But, no, thought I, other Scribblers are probably growing tired of reading stories like that.

So, what can I write about "lost"? I asked myself. Okay, I know--I'll write about a lost art. Sunshine is attempting to learn to tat. Surely tatting is a lost art and the subject would make an interesting post. Why, I could even include some pictures of future projects.

But no, I kept coming back to the Arizona story. Yesterday was a busy day and I was unable to write. So this morning I woke up, still pondering what to write about when I remembered a very special anecdote about my father that had been related by my uncle at Dad's funeral service.

It seems my Dad, Mom, her parents and younger brother (my uncle) were going on a short trip. My Dad was driving and at some point in the journey, it appeared they were lost! To this day, my Mom is very high-strung and easily stressed. Apparently, she started freaking out. My Dad, always laid-back, purportly replied, "We may be lost, but at least we're going the right direction."

How I enjoyed the story. It had made me smile even during the funeral service. I always meant to write about the incident, but never got around to it. Sometime later, I felt a little sketchy on the details and asked my uncle to recount the tale. He couldn't remember. I asked my husband. He couldn't remember, either.

Why didn't I write about the account when it was still fresh in my memory? I asked myself. To think I almost lost a story that was really important to me simply because I hadn't taken the time to write about it.

Perhaps that is why I like to write stories about things in my life. Maybe this is my way of keeping the memories from becoming lost.

Well, I must go now. I have a story to write. This one is about a trip Sunshine and I took to Arizona last fall...

"Lost in Flagstaff"

It was a dark and stormless night...

Visit Sunday Scribblings to read more on the subject of "lost."

Saturday, February 21, 2009

First Flight

For Sunday Scribbling #151-Trust

I’ve always suffered from aviophobia and claustrophobia and consequently, swore I would never fly. No way! However, when daughter Sunshine began talking about us making a trip to Arizona for a writer’s conference, the little voice inside me whispered that I might indeed be forced to eat my words.

Being a mother, I know the importance of listening to my little voice. So I determined to embark on a personal self-cure mission. I Googled “fear of flying” and found one site of particular interest. It was created by a pilot who had logged many miles of safe flight. The information appeared to be beneficial, and after scrolling to the end, I decided to pay the small fee and purchase the DVD Mr. Captain Pilot had made especially for us aviophobes.

As the planned event drew closer, the pressure increased. Sunshine kept reminding me, “You’ve got to decide soon. I need to register for the conference and book the flight.” Part of me really wanted to accompany Sunshine on the trip. In addition to attending the conference, she had planned to arrive a few days ahead of time, rent a car and do some sightseeing in the beautiful state. Neither of us had ever been to Arizona and I knew the trip would be lots of fun. That is, if only I didn’t have to fly to get there.

Having procrastinated as long as possible, I scheduled a vacation day from work and promised Sunshine I would make a decision before nightfall. I spent most of the day watching the DVD. Fellow aviophobes discussed their fear of flying, and Mr. Captain Pilot sought to assuage the various concerns with comforting facts about the safety of flying. One worry shared by many was a loss of control—putting your life in the hands of a complete stranger. Yes, flying involves implicit trust in the pilot. But Mr. Captain Pilot assured the viewers that our trust would be well-placed.

It was a gut-wrenching decision, but by 4:00 p.m. I finally made the timid announcement, “I guess I’ll give it a try.”

Sunshine was immediately on the computer and had soon booked a flight leaving Tuesday morning. I knew there was no turning back now. The next few days passed quickly. Sunshine took care of booking the rental car, planning our itinerary, and making hotel reservations. I was busy making my list of things to pack, finishing a special project at work and trying to get things caught up to a point where it would be feasible for me to be gone for almost a week.

I will admit that I was a bit excited. But also, I was really scared! I could envision myself having a major panic attack on the plane--gasping for air, leaving my seat, hugging the floor in the aisle while shouting, “Land the plane and let me out NOW.”

Tuesday morning soon arrived. We rose early and loaded the car. I did all the things Mr. Captain Pilot had advised on the DVD—“eat a light breakfast, don’t drink anything with caffeine and go easy on the orange juice because of its acidity.” Once we arrived at the airport, the hustle and bustle of getting our boarding passes and going through security kept my mind occupied so there was little time to conjure up the disturbing images of myself in the small, enclosed cabin of the plane.

There was only a short wait before our flight was called to board. As we made our way back to our seats, I surveyed the surroundings. The cabin did seem a little cramped cozy. Just imagine you are at home in your easy chair, I told myself. Consider the flight as a good opportunity to relax and catch up on some reading. (These were not my ideas—they were some of the suggestions from the DVD). At this point, however, I was willing to play whatever mind games were necessary to get me through the flight without a full-fledged panic attack.

We settled in our seats and I opened the overhead vent, allowing a stream of cool air to blow gently onto my face. (Another hint I had picked up from the DVD). I closed my eyes, took a few deep breaths and tried listening to my MP3 player. Oh, I never relaxed enough to go to sleep during the flight, but I did manage to remain pretty calm. I was quite proud of my conduct. Why, I even got brave enough to open my eyes and look out the window. What a beautiful sight.

Before long, the pilot announced we were ready to begin our descent. Some travelers do not like this part of the flight, but I enjoyed it very much. It was interesting to see the airport below and to watch the distant buildings grow larger as we approached the landing area.

Soon the plane touched down. Thankfully, it had been a successful flight and landing. Glad to be on the ground again, I heaved a sigh of relief as the passengers began filing out. The pilot stood near the exit, greeting the passengers as they departed the plane. I wanted to compliment him for the smooth flight. “Good job,” I said. “I was a little nervous since this was my first flight.”

He looked at me with an understanding smile as he replied, “Thanks. Mine, too.”

Click here to read more Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Do You Wanna Dance?



When I read that this week’s prompt for Sunday Scribblings was “sports,” my first thought was “I have nothing to say about sports.”

I’ve never been much of a sports fan; my idea of sports was either playing a favorite board game or listening to a baseball game while lying on a blanket and soaking up the summer sunshine. As a child, I was not particularly athletic--much preferring a good book to participating in sports. Physical Education was always my least favorite class in school. No, let’s be truthful; it wasn’t just my least favorite class—I hated it!

I was a strike-out queen, couldn’t run very fast, and, after that unfortunate event of being smacked in the nose while looking expectantly toward the descending baseball, always ducked when I saw one coming toward me. No hits, no runs, all errors—that pretty much summed up the way I played the all-American game. I was always one of the first ones out in dodge ball and was grateful to sit on the sidelines because I was scared senseless by the anticipation of the sting of the basketball being flung with herculean force by one of the big, upper classmen boys. It’s not surprising at all that I was always one of the last ones chosen in P.E.

One particular day in Freshman P.E., our girls’ class had been joined by the boys’ class. The teacher announced that today we were going to dance, and the boys were instructed that each one was to ask a girl student to be his dance partner.

I immediately wished my personal good luck fairy would wave her wand and create a hole in the locker room, thus allowing me to escape from this awful fate. At this moment, I figured the netherworld held more promise to me than my present predicament. Now I had to face not only the embarrassment of being the last one chosen, but I would probably be facing the humiliation of being partner to one of the dirtiest, stinkiest, grossest boys in the class. And it wouldn’t stop at that, for there would be the merciless teasing that was sure to follow.

”Will you dance with me?” a soft-spoken voice asked.

Interrupted by this intrusion of reality, my thoughts left the cauldron of ugly scenarios I had concocted, and I glanced timidly to see who had uttered those unexpected words.

My gaze shifted upward where I was greeted first by his charming smile. I quickly noted as many details as possible. He was about a head taller than me, with a slender build. He had a handsome, but gentle face and a head of thick, dark hair. His smiling eyes were accented with the most beautiful long, curly eyelashes.

I quickly sneaked a quick, hard pinch to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Ouch. No dream--this was really happening! Here he stood, the cutest boy in the whole class, and he had come to ask me to dance with him. And furthermore, he had walked straight to me, without hesitation—I had been his first choice!


My heart skipped as he took my hand and we headed for the dance floor. I smiled inwardly. Immediately I knew that, for the first time in my life, I was going to enjoy P.E. class.

To read more about sports, visit Sunday Scribblings

Saturday, February 7, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #149 -- Art

The Art of...Dumpster Diving

Hubby and I decided to drive to a nearby town for our bi-weekly grocery shopping trip today. Normally we go on Sunday after church, but today we were both experiencing a little cabin fever after enduring the winter snow and extreme cold temperatures of the past couple of weeks. Besides, Hubby wanted to visit a little shop that was closed on Sundays.

Part of our bi-weekly shopping routine involves a trip to the recycling dumpster to deposit our two-week collection of glass, plastic and steel cans. We’re not really tree huggers, but we try to be environmentally conscious and it does give us a sense of satisfaction to know that our outcast items will be re-incarnated into something useful rather than accumulating in a landfill somewhere.

As we approached the area, we noticed other recyclers were also taking advantage of the balmy weather. Since the two existing dumpsters were in use by the other recyclers, we were glad to see a third one had been added to the fleet.

Hubby popped the trunk of the car and hauled our bag of recyclables to dumpster #3. When I saw him poking around, I naturally assumed the dumpster was full and he was trying to rearrange some of the existing refuse to make room for our stuff.


But no, a closer look revealed he was pulling something out of the large bin. I groaned. Now, Hubby is a wonderful person, but he has had some past struggles with an addiction to dumpster diving. He had made some remarkable progress. In fact, I thought he was cured. But, alas, he seemed to be falling off the wagon today. Evidently the temptation was more than he could resist.

I called Sunshine, who had not accompanied us on the trip. “Guess what,” I said. “George (that’s what we call Hubby) is dumpster diving. Can you believe it?”

Just then Hubby opened the back door of the car. I was afraid to look, but at the same was overcome with horrified fascination. I slowly turned my head in time to see him loading the car with his newly acquired loot—books! I braced myself for more to come. Hubby has a passionate love affair with books and I knew he would not be able to leave any orphan books in a dark lonely dumpster. Sure enough, he made another trip and yet another.

Upon returning home, I googled “the art of dumpster diving” just to see what I would find. To my amazement, there is actually a book entitled The Art and Science of Dumpster Diving. I don’t think I’ll tell Hubby about it--he doesn’t need any tips. I think he already possesses a natural talent for dumpster diving. Besides, he doesn’t need any more books at this time.

Click here to read more Sunday Scribblings.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #148 -- Regrets


While traveling down the road of life...

Mistakes-
many

Regrets-
few

Lessons-
abundant.


Visit here for more Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #147--Phantoms and Shadows


I stared out the window of the quiet room where I sat with my family. It was a lovely spring day, the first day of May, and I watched as the birds outside the window flitted happily from one shrub to another. Outside, the world was bursting forth with life; but death loomed heavily within these walls. I glanced at the old man on the bed, with his gaunt face and scrawny arms. “That is not my Dad,” I mentally screamed. My thoughts turned to the father I had known for most of my life...

Dad worked in a factory and was a backyard mechanic. I remembered his muscled arms and sinewy hands, always black from grease and oil. I smiled to myself. “I don’t think I ever saw Dad with clean hands until he came to the nursing home,” I mused. Dad’s favorite place was his garage, where he spent most of his spare time. It was like his den, a place he could escape from the responsibilities of raising a family and do the mechanic’s work he enjoyed so much. The garage was large. Dad had built it himself and wanted plenty of room to work. Having a self-expressed hatred of “dungeons,” he had left the entire south side of the garage open. Dad almost always had a radio playing and, as kids, my brother and I always enjoyed listening with him to the Grand Ole Opry, various radio ministers and especially the Indianapolis 500, which took place every Memorial Day. Often, Dad would be working at the bench grinder which he had mounted on a large wooden post set in the ground just outside the garage.

Since he had known nothing but hard manual labor all his life, Dad’s only hobby was work. So when he “retired” from the factory, he became caretaker for the local cemetery in order to keep busy. And the month of May was always the busiest one of the year. After a long winter’s hibernation, the young blades of grass pushed enthusiastically through the warm soil, eagerly soaking up the rays of sunshine and gentle spring rains. The little wisps grew rapidly, soon carpeting the cemetery grounds with a plush green cover. Arriving toward the month’s end, Memorial Day always brought a host of visitors who came to decorate graves of loved ones. And, of course, these annual pilgrims expected the grounds to be well manicured. So, early in the month Dad would stand at the bench grinder and sharpen the mower blades, preparing them for the grass cutting task ahead.

I was only vaguely aware of the television which was playing in the background for my attention stayed focused on the bed where my father lay, his life slowly ebbing away as we all sat in silence listening to the shallow breaths grow weaker and farther apart, wondering which one might be the last. Suddenly the melancholy of the moment was interrupted by the sound of engines revving as the sportscaster announced the latest reports from the time trials. I had almost forgotten—it would soon be time for the Indianapolis 500. If Dad were still able to work, he would no doubt be at the bench grinder right now, sharpening the mower blades in preparation for yet another season of grass cutting.

Monday morning we received the call we knew was inevitable—Dad had passed away at 1:00 a.m. We spent the rest of the day taking care of the usual necessary tasks—calling other family members, making arrangements for the services, finding something to wear, etc. By night, we were tired and slept soundly, no longer concerned that our slumber would be interrupted by “the call” we had so dreaded to receive.

Tuesday morning was ushered in by a call from Mom, who said she had just heard from the country neighbors. Mom and Dad had moved to town several years ago, but had kept the family home place, a ten-acre plot in the country consisting of the house where we grew up as well as Dad’s garage. The neighbors had become self-appointed guardians of the property, quickly reporting to my parents any unusual sights, sounds or activities they observed. That was the reason for the phone call this morning. After the usual condolences, the neighbors reported they had heard a noise the night before and thought, perhaps, we might want to check it out.

My husband was conscripted to perform the investigation. After arriving at the property, he parked his vehicle and began to look around. He saw no one and, for that matter, found no evidence of any recent visitors. However, he did hear a noise which sounded like that of a piece of machinery running and appeared to be emanating from the vicinity of Dad’s garage. He continued following the sound until he found the source—it was the bench grinder! The grinder had not been turned on since Dad had last used it about three years ago, but it was running now.

Chills raced up and down my spine as my husband related the story to me. Who would have turned on the grinder and why? Was the whole incident just some sort of strange coincidence? Or was it something else? My heart beat rapidly. Was it possible Dad had asked St. Peter to take a detour on their voyage to the Pearly Gates? Could the episode with the bench grinder have been Dad’s way of saying “I was here for one last visit?” You decide. I know what I think.

Click here for more Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #146 -- Pilgrimage


The brilliant orange sun painted the western horizon as we pulled out of Williams, Arizona and began the eastward journey to Winslow. We reminisced about the lovely day we had spent at the Grand Canyon, marveling at its majestic beauty, chuckling at the humorous remarks of Thomas, our tour guide and conversing with the four other couples on the tour.

Dusk arrived swiftly, but was soon overtaken by night as darkness descended over the desert landscape and cloaked the beautiful scenery in blackness. The blazing sun was now behind us and the chill of the desert evening was upon us.

Despite the gloomy night, we were still in high spirits as our thoughts turned to our next destination—Winslow Arizona, a town made popular by the Eagles’ song “Take it Easy.” As we contemplated our pilgrimage to visit “The Corner” in Winslow, we began humming the song, and then broke into a duet. The song had a laid-back feel about it that we both enjoyed. What would Winslow be like, we wondered? Nestled between the Grand Canyon and Petrified Forest, Hubby imagined it would be a pretty little southwestern town, with glimpses of mountains in the distance. Daughter and I both envisioned a small town, Mainstreet USA setting.


The journey seemed long and the desolate darkness was punctured only by pairs of headlights from cars and trucks on the highly traveled road. But finally we arrived in Winslow and located a Pizza Hut where we enjoyed a good meal. As we headed back to the car, we noticed a nearby Wal-Mart store. “Pizza Hut and Wal-Mart--makes you feel right at home, doesn’t it?” I asked. Daughter, Sunshine, agreed and noted that we should stop at Wal-Mart in the morning so she could purchase a memory stick for her camera.

After a good night’s rest, we arose early for some sunrise pictures. We packed the car, enjoyed some breakfast muffins and were ready to start the day. Sunshine had planned our trip beforehand and I had printed MapQuest directions to all the places we intended to visit. All the MapQuest pages were slipped in sheet protectors and placed in a vinyl notebook which I kept in the front seat at all times. We also had our trusty GPS Unit, Gabriella Poppadopolous Smith, whom we affectionately referred to as “Gabby,” so we should have no problem locating “The Corner.”

Confidently, we left the motel and pulled onto Route 66.
Yes, we were actually traveling on the famous road, the Mother Road, the ultimate symbol of freedom and independence. But, the scenery was not exactly what we had imagined. The buildings were old and run down and the area looked like a desert ghost town. Suddenly the fresh innocence of early morning gave way to an inexplicable sense of foreboding. Was “The Corner” just an evil scheme masterminded by some diabolical being to lure unsuspecting tourists into the town for God only knows what wicked purpose? I almost expected Rod Serling to materialize at any moment, announcing we had just entered the Twilight Zone.

Undaunted by the bleak surroundings, however, we continued driving and, happily, soon reentered civilization. Our hearts began to beat a little faster—it appeared we were approaching the downtown area. Surely our destination could only be around “the corner.”

“Just look for Kinsey Ave.,” I said to Sunshine, all the while watching the street signs myself. I just knew we must be very close by now. The directions were so simple—take I-40 exit 252, then east on Route 66 (Second St.) to Kinsey Ave. Apparently we were already on Second Street, so all we had to do was locate Kinsey Ave. and turn left. Easy street! Well, it should have been easy to locate had we not encountered the dreaded road work sign. As we approached the next intersection, we saw the street was blocked off for repairs.

“No problem-we’ll just take an alternate route,” I said while turning the only direction possible without going the wrong way on a one way street. “It can’t be too hard to find.” Winslow seemed like a fairly small town and, besides, Sunshine and I had always prided ourselves for our keen sense of direction. We would simply try to go a couple blocks south, turn right and continue westward until we reached Kinsey Ave., which would now be to our right.

We had driven only a short distance, however, when we once again encountered the unwelcome street closed for repairs sign. It's nice that Winslow wants to maintian the streets, we mused, but why couldn’t the town wait until we had visited “The Corner.” Then, once we were happily motoring down the road again, Winslow could have begun its street repair project.


We continued driving around town, but were never able to locate “The Corner.” We either came across another street closed sign or found ourselves back where we had started. Our quest for the fabled corner now seemed an increasingly difficult mission if not an outright impossibility. When we found ourselves in a rather seedy-looking part of town, I suggested we try and find that Wal-Mart store we had seen last night. Sunshine could purchase the memory stick and we could ask an associate for directions to “The Corner.”

Fortunately, we located the Wal-Mart store with little difficulty. Sunshine purchased her memory stick and the kind lady in the camera department gave us directions. Soon we were winding through a pleasant residential area. But there was no sight of downtown or “The Corner." We were both concerned that these directions might also lead to yet another dead end. Finally, I verbalized what we both already knew. “Sunshine, if we don’t find it this time, I’m afraid we’ll have to head on to the Petrified Forest.” Our tight schedule had left us little time for cruising the streets of Winslow. But, even if we couldn’t visit “The Corner,” I reasoned, we had already had a great time and there was the promise of more exciting things to come.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. We each tried to keep a stiff upper lip and hide our disappointment from the other. But in reality, we were both quite discouraged at the thought of coming over a thousand miles and being so close, yet not being able to actually visit the site.

It was at this instant we looked up and saw THE SIGN—the beautiful green sign which read “Kinsey Ave.” Our gloom turned to joy! Rays of sunlight broke through the clouds and from the heavens we heard the majestic strains of “The Hallelujah Chorus.” (Well, it may not have happened quite like that, but we were really excited and simultaneously shouted in exuberance, “There’s Kinsey Ave!”).


We found a parking spot and approached the hallowed ground. There was time for pictures and even for a short visit to the corner gift shop across the street. Soon we were back on the road, elated that we had been able to visit the “shrine.” Now we could sign with gusto “Well I’m standin’ on a corner in Winslow, Arizona and such a fine sight to see.” Happily, we pulled onto I-40 and headed east toward the Petrified Forest.

Click here for more Sunday Scribblings.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

100% Organic Horse Hockey

Now, don’t think from the title that I am anti-organic. Quite the contrary—I have always been interested in adapting a healthy life style. In fact, several years ago, my husband and I became very attracted to organic gardening and self-sufficient living. ..

At that time, he managed the sewing machine store we owned in a nearby town and I worked in the office of a local manufacturing company. One of my co-workers, MJ, was a very frugal older lady who was both an avid gardener and an unabashed animal lover. She was quite pleased to learn that I, a member of the younger generation, was also interested in gardening and so she volunteered to bring me some organic fertilizer.

Friday arrived and, knowing I would have the whole weekend to work in my garden, MJ decided to bring the fertilizer to work. I was ecstatic—she had brought me three large plastic bags of horse manure! You would have thought it was gold. As we lifted the heavy bags into the trunk of my car, I could envision my hard clay soil miraculously transforming into rich dark loam and producing mouth-watering crops of corn, tomatoes, and green beans.

The work day was rather uneventful. I spent my time processing orders and answering customer complaints. Since our shop stayed open until 8:00 on Fridays, I planned to go there after work to help my husband and keep him company. Four o’clock finally arrived. After spending nine hours indoors in a windowless “dungeon,” it would be great to step outside into the sunlight and enjoy a breath of fresh air.

As I opened the door and descended the steps, my nostrils were assaulted by the most horrid stench imaginable! I immediately clamped my hand over my face. “What in the world could produce such a sickening odor?” I wondered. Just then I realized the awful aroma was emanating from the trunk of my car where the organic fertilizer had been cooking (or rather, decomposing) in the hot sun for the past nine hours!

Hoping for some small relief from the stench, I quickly opened the car door only to find the smell had become even more concentrated, permeating every inch of the small, enclosed space. The obscene odor, I feared, might have even penetrated to the molecular level. Not knowing what else to do, I started the engine and began the twenty-five mile trip to our store.

Once on the open road, I rolled down the car window. By this time my lungs were desperate for some fresh, clean air. But, alas, there was none. For the stagnant putrid air inside the car had co-mingled with the noxious fumes erupting from the trunk, producing a malodorous monster which re-entered the car with a vengeance and attacked my nauseous nostrils.

I pinched my nose, clamped my mouth shut, and held my breath as long as I could. Eventually, however, the survival instinct took over and I sucked in a breath of the noxious air. As quickly as possible, I again covered my nostrils and lips, gasping for a quick breath only as a last resort. This process was repeated for the entire trip. It was unquestionably the longest 30 minutes I can ever remember.

In addition to olfactory anguish was the dread of breaking the news to my husband that I had despoiled our primary means of transportation, probably rendering it worthless. He was unable to protest since the foul odor had left him semi-conscious and in a completely passive state of stupor. (Well, maybe that last sentence is a bit of an exaggeration). Anyway, we did grow a wonderful garden that year. And, despite my misgivings, the organic produce was scrmptuous and didn’t taste a bit like equestrian excrement!

Visit Sunday Scribblings for more organic reading.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Sunday Scribblings #144 -- for richer or poorer


It was Monday, the 29th of May, our wedding anniversary. Having just turned 21 a few months earlier, my husband and I were now officially adults, albeit still poor college students. Since there was no school, we had the whole day to celebrate our first anniversary.

My thoughts turned to our lovely wedding. It had been a very simple outdoor ceremony, attended only by close family members. There was no money for a lavish wedding, though my unpretentious husband would never have agreed to any such copious event had our budget allowed it. The weather that Saturday had been picture perfect – fluffy cotton clouds floated in the cerulean blue sky and the spring sunshine smiled upon us, basking us in warmth as we said our vows. There was no money for a honeymoon--that would have to wait till another time.

“How do you want to celebrate our anniversary?” my husband asked. The question brought me back to the present.

“Hmm….. I don’t know.” (I never did like to make those important decisions). "Maybe we could just go for a drive.” I said, ignoring the ominous-looking rainclouds that were forming in the sky above us.

So we hopped into hubby’s 1966 Dodge Charger, which he had purchased for the whopping sum of $96, and headed for... anywhere.

As we neared the local grocery store, hubby said, “Do you want to stop and get a snack?”

“Sure, let’s do.”

A few minutes later, we returned to the car with a bag of chips and some pop. The Charger seemed to point in a westerly direction, so we obliged.

“How about we stop at the ‘rez’ and feed the ducks?” Hubby asked.

“Sounds good to me.”

As we started to enter the reservoir area, the grey clouds began to release the rain they had been storing all morning.

“Guess we’ll just have to watch the ducks, today,” I said, not letting the rain dampen my spirit.

So, we sat in the car, eating our chips and drinking our pop. Observing the circles created by the drops of rain as they plopped onto the surface of the water, we mused how wonderful it was that ducks were waterproof and basked in the warmth of each other’s company. The drip-drop of the rain on the windshield reminded us of the pitter-patter of tiny feet that was sure to greet us when we returned home. (No, we didn’t have any children yet-- I refer to Tabitha, our first kitty).

Fast forward several years:
We were blessed with a lovely daughter. Tabitha lived to the ripe old age of 19, and we have adopted and loved many other cats since her. We still live in the bungalow where hubby grew up. And although we have never yet taken that honeymoon, we are still enjoying our life together as best friends. Tell me, am I shamefully rich or what!

Click here for more Sunday Scribblings.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Sunday Scribblings #143 - I Believe....


I believe in...
the glory of sunrise
the miracle of birth
the opportunities of each new day.

I believe in...
the importance of faith
the strength of hope
the power of love.

I believe in...
the joy of laughter
the value of smiles
the delight of friendship.

I believe in...
the existence of God
the presence of angels
the beauty of sunset.

I believe in...
the peacefuleness of night
the anticipation of dawn
the celebration of life.


For more Sunday Scribblings, click here

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Sunday Scribblings #142 -- Late!

Late is a child of our ancestor Time,
A threat that will always loom;
Covering my dimensional existence,
It imprisons me in a time cocoon.

Could I but penetrate those supple walls
How far my soul could soar
Free from earthly time constraints
To be late no more!

Ah, but enough of this ethereal musing
On these thoughts that are confusing.
I must stop, I’ve got to go…..
I’m late for work again—oh no!

"It gets late early out there." ~ Yogi Berra


For more Scribblings, go to Sunday Scribblings

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Sunday Scribblings #141: I Knew Instantly...

My daughter and I independently recounted this incident. My version is below. For her version, click here

I was excited! Christmas was just a week away and, though an adult in years, I was still a child at heart. Today was the annual “treat Sunday “at church. As my daughter and I left the building, we received a small paper bag containing various treats—usually candy, popcorn and an orange.

As we rounded the downtown square, I turned to my daughter and asked, “What’s in your treat bag?”

She opened the bag and found it contained the usual assortment of goodies. She picked out one of the candies and sighed, “Oh, it’s a Farley candy.”

Farley candy reminded me of Chuck & Betty Farley, a couple we had "met" on a previous trip to South Dakota. But, that is another story. Anyway, for some reason I have always had an affinity for spoonerisms. In my strongest, most ho! ho! ho! liday voice I shouted “Well, F…k Charley!”

I knew instantly that I should have silently rehearsed that spoonerism before blurting it out. Time stood still as many thoughts raced through my mind.

Oh, my gosh! Did I really say that? Here I am only two minutes away from church and I’m already shouting the “F” word to my 12-year old daughter. I must be a really unfit mother. And poor baby Jesus…what will He think? I didn’t mean to be irreverent. I really didn’t mean to say that.

As I sat frozen at the steering wheel wondering how to explain my outburst, both of us were struck with the humor of the situation. Simultaneously we burst into uncontrollable laughter. These were no giddy giggles, these were gargantuan guffaws that gave you a bellyache and made you cry so hard you couldn’t see. We carried on like this the remaining 10 miles home, hoping we wouldn’t meet a cop. He would surely accuse me of sipping too much eggnog.

Well, they say all’s well that ends well. And things did turn out just fine. My daughter was apparently unaffected by that unexpected encounter with the “F” word, I know Jesus understood and forgave my foolishness and I learned to quit using those spoonerisms.

Crappy Histmas to all!

For more Scribblings, go to Sunday Scribblings