tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33156108157758180582024-03-18T20:16:16.443-07:00augustineAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3315610815775818058.post-51272753302548213612012-10-23T13:33:00.002-07:002012-10-23T13:33:23.116-07:00Small Blessings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5_K0axKLp76vCM_z3TVKkmLUeRbF8ML6LSdxDgsIy05DKA89MN9YLrHHrbZrQQE4ioCh2id6xCRggdgIYIgDBWcRzX2F1GAC862nn3qJFUdrTIJAJIb-H01ogEa5_Mm04yy3pB8b3HE/s1600/littlegirlindress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA5_K0axKLp76vCM_z3TVKkmLUeRbF8ML6LSdxDgsIy05DKA89MN9YLrHHrbZrQQE4ioCh2id6xCRggdgIYIgDBWcRzX2F1GAC862nn3qJFUdrTIJAJIb-H01ogEa5_Mm04yy3pB8b3HE/s320/littlegirlindress.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Small
Blessings<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Wow!” Jerry standing behind her
taking it all in. “So, this is our
hidden room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “It’s kind of creepy. Why would someone board up a room like this?”
Lindsay asked and turned to look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Do you think the child died?” Lindsay
asked, curiously.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “How could we live here for five years
and not know that this was here?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “If you hadn’t decided to remodel, we
might never have known.” Lindsay said, stroking the bed post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Well, I’m ready for dinner. Let’s go eat.” Jerry said, smiling, as he
left Lindsay standing in the room alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “What happened to you, little girl?”
Lindsay asked, softly. She turned and
followed her husband downstairs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> *****<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3315610815775818058.post-31556202547971044412012-10-23T13:21:00.001-07:002012-10-23T13:21:11.187-07:00In the Box<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> In the Box<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3m7zaf4G4TMeR07Sq8cW89LlZzs8eM9IjDneBP1-jBXtp4fCzdbswp0DRFUDA6o8wH8Z5FhKOgNH77OfeD3UJ760mV9pwC74V1hxoBL42KtXN9CS2hNWIL6-ALT-6ync7jEIMcblpH9U/s1600/file6951266532094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3m7zaf4G4TMeR07Sq8cW89LlZzs8eM9IjDneBP1-jBXtp4fCzdbswp0DRFUDA6o8wH8Z5FhKOgNH77OfeD3UJ760mV9pwC74V1hxoBL42KtXN9CS2hNWIL6-ALT-6ync7jEIMcblpH9U/s400/file6951266532094.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3315610815775818058.post-34717419980920919802012-09-20T17:08:00.001-07:002012-09-21T12:28:17.863-07:00The Stick<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEQRrHRq6L6-rPwcp647HygpUYjh-SIPqYouKRK_tDtkeIudEdDFs0yYGJ6vJNkLnpWfx2qJZlnLrKVixY7iyG1_MTi0EPn-5ookMttoZhcbfrEDjpDtG3zJNtC4yK9Yb-vmllxm_3bE/s1600/freeimage-5614566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEQRrHRq6L6-rPwcp647HygpUYjh-SIPqYouKRK_tDtkeIudEdDFs0yYGJ6vJNkLnpWfx2qJZlnLrKVixY7iyG1_MTi0EPn-5ookMttoZhcbfrEDjpDtG3zJNtC4yK9Yb-vmllxm_3bE/s320/freeimage-5614566.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The
Stick<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Come on, Jake! It’s
time for supper.” His brother shouted
from below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Don’t come any closer or I’ll run you through with my
sword!” Jake told him, dropping from the tree.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“You little dork, that is nothing but a stick!” The fifteen
year old said with disdain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">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!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3315610815775818058.post-13288592191890120852012-09-20T16:40:00.000-07:002012-09-20T16:40:29.713-07:00Those Iron Gates<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiuZfepWsaFBtc9dDHLQtGUQMvgAcXag_cAjZ7uorCLcrb24cyJAEcgBTG3XbA0gXGtLTvlslFbZZgKV-QyEJL4wunQ9lDCS9sGoQlIC7JtvULDOslMu3hwlfR9ZYfP3-pcp7orMHJGg/s1600/file4021285826512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiuZfepWsaFBtc9dDHLQtGUQMvgAcXag_cAjZ7uorCLcrb24cyJAEcgBTG3XbA0gXGtLTvlslFbZZgKV-QyEJL4wunQ9lDCS9sGoQlIC7JtvULDOslMu3hwlfR9ZYfP3-pcp7orMHJGg/s320/file4021285826512.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Those Iron Gates<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 2.5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I was
passing the cemetery the other day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The usual
guilt still plagued me today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Within those
iron gates there lies, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many of my
loved ones that met their demise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Each one is
so special to me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEiuZfepWsaFBtc9dDHLQtGUQMvgAcXag_cAjZ7uorCLcrb24cyJAEcgBTG3XbA0gXGtLTvlslFbZZgKV-QyEJL4wunQ9lDCS9sGoQlIC7JtvULDOslMu3hwlfR9ZYfP3-pcp7orMHJGg/s1600/file4021285826512.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I just can’t
bring myself to go there, you see.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Their graves
are bare of flowers and trinkets of love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Because I
just can’t bear to look at them from above.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Standing
over them like that brings me to my knees.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Others may
not understand and think I am weak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But in my
prayers each night, I plead with the Lord to let them know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">How much I
love and miss them, and everyday my memories flow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So if you
see me pass and I don’t stop, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t think
for one moment that I’ve forgot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3315610815775818058.post-71694470366946230632012-09-16T10:53:00.000-07:002012-09-16T11:17:12.338-07:00Mama Felicia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCE1yrnPQL6nM-FMeBnLHTgOKH2GFc49NOZhLG0mHyBF2S_7t___Q8GQXvbtqwu_rbvajZCLxSBuJM0igJKmC4Agl7NcHVIsiRN_qv8s9giySveEF0nBzJN0NvE0DXrH9QcZ8ZOrctqg/s1600/Mama+Felicia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFCE1yrnPQL6nM-FMeBnLHTgOKH2GFc49NOZhLG0mHyBF2S_7t___Q8GQXvbtqwu_rbvajZCLxSBuJM0igJKmC4Agl7NcHVIsiRN_qv8s9giySveEF0nBzJN0NvE0DXrH9QcZ8ZOrctqg/s320/Mama+Felicia.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<a href="http://www.booksie.com/thrillers/novel/augustine/mama-felicia-newly-revised">http://www.booksie.com/thrillers/novel/augustine/mama-felicia-newly-revised</a>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03811170075047689940noreply@blogger.com0