Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Small Blessings


                                      Small Blessings

          The room looked like any little girl’s room.  Cheery little doll faces smiled out from the shelves.  There were story books, a doll house, and a large rocking horse.  The bed had a pink lacy canopy that matched the feminine bedding.  There was a trunk at the end of the bed, for storing or for sitting.  The pink and lavender clown border, adorably set off the room.  It was a child’s dream bedroom, but looked disturbing now, full of cobwebs and dust. 
          “Wow!” Jerry standing behind her taking it all in.  “So, this is our hidden room.”
          “It’s kind of creepy.  Why would someone board up a room like this?” Lindsay asked and turned to look at him.
          Jerry stepped into the room to have a closer look.  “This must have been boarded up a hundred years ago!  These dolls are all porcelain.”  He picked up a book from the shelf and opened it. “Copyright 1820.” He read and replaced the book, brushing his dusty hands on his blue jeans.   “This is incredible!”
          “Do you think the child died?” Lindsay asked, curiously.
          “Maybe, people do strange things in their grief.  Amazing how nothing really seems faded.  Just dusty.” Jerry observed, running a hand threw his rich brown hair.
          “Well, there is no light in here.  I would bet that the bedding is rotten.  It definitely has that musty smell to it.”  She sneezed.
          “How could we live here for five years and not know that this was here?”
          “If you hadn’t decided to remodel, we might never have known.” Lindsay said, stroking the bed post.
          “Well, I’m ready for dinner.  Let’s go eat.” Jerry said, smiling, as he left Lindsay standing in the room alone.
          “What happened to you, little girl?” Lindsay asked, softly.  She turned and followed her husband downstairs.
          As soon as they were gone, a sprightly little form moved into view and peered wonderingly at the hole in the wall.  Jubilantly it danced through the open space, delighted to be set free.
                                                *****
          Lindsay was just coming in from hanging laundry the next day when she went into the bedroom to put the clothes away.  At first, the humming didn’t register, but soon the eerily familiar tune was inside her head.  She was humming along before she realized that the sound was coming from the hallway.  She stopped what she was doing and listened closely, walking quietly toward the door.  The humming continued until she peered into the hall.  Then a light breeze brushed by her and was gone, taking the sweet notes with it.
          It wasn’t long before Lindsay decided that she had imagined the incident and forgot it entirely.  She cleaned out the dusty hidden room and packed away the dolls and books.  Everything was put in a neat corner of the attic. 
          Weeks later, Lindsay was watering the garden, oblivious to the splashing and laughing in the puddle behind her.  It was Jerry that discovered the small muddy footprints on the kitchen floor later that day. 
          There were small signs everywhere that they were living with a pint size ghost, but neither Lindsay nor Jerry said a word about it to each other.  When something was found where it shouldn’t be, they silently put it away and when there was a small indention on the bedding they smoothed it down.  Life went on as normally as it could, and that spring Lindsay found herself pregnant.
          A few weeks later, all the strange happenings stopped.  Had the ghost went on to where it should be?  Strangely, the little things were missed and Lindsay wished the happy little spirit was still with them.  The hidden room was no longer hidden and instead was turned into a nursery.  They kept the clown border, and repainted the lavender walls. 
          Several years passed and one day, Lindsay found their own little sprite dancing down the hall in front of her bedroom door.  Her blond curls bounced along as she hummed a tune that Lindsay had never quite gotten out of her head.
         
          

In the Box


                                      In the Box

          I stood in front of the casket, looking down at my mother’s beautiful face.  She looked lovely, even in death and suddenly I couldn’t move; my feet frozen to the floor.  I knew that this was the last time I would ever see her and couldn’t tear myself away.  With tears streaming down my face, I could barely see as someone grabbed me by the hand and led me to a pew.
          I’m sure the service was beautiful, but really, I can’t say.  It was all a blur of flowers, prayers, and music that whizzed by me, my mind was far away.  I was thinking about all the times we had shared and things that only she and I knew and how I would never again be able to ask her advice or call her on the phone.  How she would miss out on seeing my kids grown.  So many thoughts that I missed the whole thing and I vaguely remember getting many hugs and condolences.  I couldn’t tell you who from.
          A few days later, I still was in shock and tears still so close that I couldn’t think much.  My Dad was in a kind of stupor; his own grief was so much for him to bear.  He asked me if I would help him to clean out my mom’s things.  He just couldn’t bring himself to do it, but it was heartbreaking to see them there.  I told him I would, though I was unsure that I was up to it.
          One thing you should know about my mother is that she was a very private person.  I felt so guilty going through her things, as if she could any minute come into the room and ask me to explain.  I silently apologized for my intrusion as I began boxing things up.  I tried not to look too closely at what I was handling as I packed.  My eyes were far from dry and try as I might; memories flooded me with every item I picked up.  There were jewelry boxes and ceramic figurines that she had had since I was small and several gifts that my sister had made her over the years. 
          I was drowning in my misery by the time I neared her closet.  Looking inside at her clothes, I felt terror and panic seize me.  The woman had kept clothes that she hadn’t worn for years and years, but most of them I remembered and how was I going to ever get through this?  It was like the worst kind of torture.  Somehow I did it and did not break down. 
          With the closet mostly cleared, I saw a huge cardboard box.  It was pushed far into the farthest corner.  The box was obviously very old and had been taped up several times and as I tried to move it, the old paper tore in my hands.  The contents spilled out onto the floor of the closet.
          There were books, pictures, letters, birthday cards, and many other things.  .  I was fascinated and amazed at the things she had kept.  There were things that had belonged to me and my sister that had disappeared through the years.  Some I had wondered where they went and others, I had completely forgotten.  There was the Raggedy Ann pendant from my fourth birthday, and baby clothes that had been my sister’s.  As I took a closer look, I realized that the books were yearbooks; not just from her own high school years, but from her years of teaching.  There were photos of students dated back to the early 1970s.  I realized as I looked, I was looking at my mother’s entire life.  She had kept mementoes from students and college friends.  Slowly, I began sorting through all of the things and separating them into a chronological order. 
          When I was finished, I had a perfect account of my mother’s entire life, starting with a few of her grade cards from elementary school and ended with pictures of her kindergarten class from her last year teaching.  It was as though she had left me a gift - the gift of the account of her life.  
Suddenly, through my tears and grief, I was so very proud to be part of that account.  All of my life, I had watched as she so graciously gave of herself to help others, her family, her students, and her church.  I had never thought about how everyone had impacted her as well.  It was obvious that this box was her treasure chest and everyone in it was special to her. 
I have since started a scrapbook containing all of these things as a tribute to my mother.  I will hold her close to my heart forever and her treasures have become mine.
          

Thursday, September 20, 2012

The Stick


                                      The Stick

Jake jumped off his horse and looked down the barrel of his rifle.  The posse was nowhere in sight.  He must’ve outrun ’em.  He slunk down in relief and sat on the ground, his back against the trunk of the tree.    He had just caught his breath when, through his telescope, he spied his adversaries coming over the ridge.  There were four of them, the sheriff in the lead.  Would they string him up from this very tree?  In desperation, he climbed up the tree, hiding quietly, the beat of his heart loud enough to give him away.
“Come on, Jake!  It’s time for supper.”  His brother shouted from below.
“Don’t come any closer or I’ll run you through with my sword!” Jake told him, dropping from the tree.
“You little dork, that is nothing but a stick!” The fifteen year old said with disdain.
Jake looked down at the stick in his hand. It was his trusty steed, his rifle, his telescope, his sword.  He shook his head in wondering sadness. He followed his brother out of the park, carrying his ever-changing, miraculous toy.  How sorry he felt for his brother.  It must be horrible to be fifteen!

Those Iron Gates




Those Iron Gates

I was passing the cemetery the other day. 
The usual guilt still plagued me today.
Within those iron gates there lies,
Many of my loved ones that met their demise.
Each one is so special to me
I just can’t bring myself to go there, you see.
Their graves are bare of flowers and trinkets of love
Because I just can’t bear to look at them from above.
Standing over them like that brings me to my knees.
Others may not understand and think I am weak.
But in my prayers each night, I plead with the Lord to let them know
How much I love and miss them, and everyday my memories flow.
So if you see me pass and I don’t stop,
Don’t think for one moment that I’ve forgot.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Mama Felicia



Felicia has everything a woman could want including a loving husband and a promising career.  Then strange dreams start to disturb her sleep on a daily basis.  What do they mean?  What is this strange house she envisions?  What is her connection to it?  Only one thing is for certain, her slumber will not return until she has answers.
http://www.booksie.com/thrillers/novel/augustine/mama-felicia-newly-revised