Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing can be--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers, and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

 

Returning to ATNS. The scene:

 

Rissa,  Cuylrh (who rescued her from her alien abduction by actually abducting her ) and Cuylrh's first guard, Abraxum, are following a trail down off a mountain, the top of which they've spent the night on.  It's cold.

 

The old guard following Rissa, who is following Cuylrh,  notices Rissa rubbing her arms to warm them. 

 

The young King (Cuylrh) has taken issue with Rissa's langage, and is steeled to teach her his native tongue, Rialtan.  He's told Abraxum that it's for her own good. For her very survival. They each must do their part to teach her the language, and part of that is forcing her to speak it by ignoring her native tongue and her gesturing.

 

This is what happens:

 

"Without  word or whisper, Abraxum removed his jacket and put it on her shoulders, letting it rest over her thin blouse. 

She slid her arms into the sleeves, turned to look at Abraxum, at his perpetually stoic expression and said, “Thank You” in Earth English. 

The young King stopped, turned around and raised his eyebrows, then repeated a little more firmly but not unkind, “Rialtan.”  He moved to within inches of her, and with a fair imitation of her Earth English said, “Thank You.” After a  pause for—she guessed,  dramatic effect, he added, “Shushan.” 

Rissa nodded, looked at Abraxum again and said, “Shushan, Abraxum.”

Please visit the other sixers at the sixsunday.com site!  And thank you stopping by.

One more SSS post. It has been one heck of a ride.  And what a wonderful and generous thing those ladies of SSS have done. Thank you. :-)

 

 

 

 

 

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A Pocketful of Joy

Today was NattieFriday.  It happens every other week.  I pick my granddaughter up at preschool, and we get to spend the rest of the day together. Usually, we gear it toward something she'd especially enjoy; doting grandparents have that luxury.

Most recently, we stumbled upon her affinity for the soft pretzel joint in the local mall.  So after we picked her up today, we cut around town to get to the place with great pretzels--and the much coveted caramel sauce to dip them in.

It was pretty cold here today, in spite of the brilliant sunshine beating down from heavenly blue skies.  Colder than it's been most of the winter, so Nattie had on her thick winter coat. After eating our pretzels, and then leaving-- since when asked, Nattie needed nothing at the mall, we were almost to the doors when she stuck her hands in her coat pockets.  With her right hand she retrieved a pair of dirty socks.   Through giggles she said, "I forgot to give these to mommy".

What followed was her left hand retrieving from her pink jacket pocket, two strings of beads, one blue, one purple. Her face lit up with delight and her eyes fairly twinkled when she said through a big smile, "Look grammie! I forgot these were in my pocket!"  She proceeded to put on the necklaces, and she looked like a little princess for the effort. Like a happy little princess.

Pap said, "You know what I always find in my pocket that I forget is there?"

She shook her head no as we continued across the parking lot.

"Lint. Sawdust. Dirt."

"Eww!'"

Then do you know what her grammie (me) almost said????  I had to bite my tongue; it was so close to coming out. I wanted to tell her that  it's a really good day when you reach your hand in your coat pocket and find money you forgot was in there.

Yeah...  I almost said it.

And you know what stopped me?  That look of complete joy on her face as she slid those necklaces on.  How could finding money ever compare with finding something that brought such delight? Such complete  joy?

She has all of her life to form the misunderstanding that money is happiness. And if she's really lucky, she'll develop a realistic perspective about money--in the bank, or discovered in a jacket pocket. It's just money, not a thing of delight.

I write this without trying to deny a truth:  A lack of money can cause a lot of things that aren't good.  Stress is high on that list, and unhappiness for a lot of different reasons. I've been there.

But in one of those complex laws of life, the exact opposite isn't true.  Having money doesn't necessarily equate with having happiness.

But...sometimes a little string of purple or blue plastic princess beads does.

It's all in perspective.   And sometimes, it's a lot more joyful to see things through the eyes of a child

Six Sentence Sunday January 13, 2013

Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing can be--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers, and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

This week, I return to ATNS.  During a celebration of Rissa successfully competing with a sword, Rissa had a scene with Cuylrh and his crew, and fled.  She's been hopping shuttles at space stations, and Cuylrh has been searching for her, quietly putting out the word (quietly so his grandfather doesn't learn that Rissa is undefended).  In this scene, his cousin, Dracorh, came across Rissa playing with refugee children at a station and briefly began to hit on her until he saw Cuylrh's pendant slip out of her shirt.  He contacted Cuylrh and gave him the news, then proceeded to occupy Rissa's time until Cuylrh could arrive at the station.  Rissa figured it out just before Cuylrh and his crew arrived.  She took off running across the shuttle docking area.

~note~ "chade' is a Rialtan word, translated means "bitch".

Next to reach her, Dracorh tackled her, tumbling both of them onto the metal floor.

Underdog or not, it was a full out assault on Rissa’s part as she kicked her feet against his ribs, and bit anything coming close to her teeth. 

More guards arrived and tried to get a grip on an arm or an ankle. She was crazed, scratching, punching, slapping. Her foot connected with one of them, buckling his knee as he fell--cursing in pain, "Crazy chade!"

Limited to defending himself, Dracorh had one arm raised shielding his face while he batted at her hands and feet with the other.

Money passed from hand to hand as a crowd of eager-faced dockworkers gathered to witness how this was going to end.  No one would have wagered in her favor if they’d known that a new player was about to come on the scene.

That's it. Comments and criticisms greatly appreciated.

Anyone hosting a sunday bloghop--to replace SSS? It's getting close...

Camelot-not: Winter, mid-latitudes

"...And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot..."

Lyrics by: Alan Jay Lerner

And who wouldn't like it that way?  Alas, here in Camelot-not, in the mid-latitudes of temperature and precipitation variations, there is no such thing as rules for the weather.  

I was reminded of that while watching the  local forecast today.  We had a snowstorm dump 8 inches on the 26th of December, and an additinal 4 inches over the folowing few days. It has remained cold; Camelot in action, I think.  And now?  A January thaw.  A BIG January thaw.  A week's worth of temps well above freezing through the day, and flirting with freezing overnight.  Oh, and a couple days of rain mixed in.

No matter how you stack it, it adds up to ice.  And with 3/4 of a mile of country lane between me and a public road, no matter how you stack it, ice adds up to...adventure?

That might not be the correct word, but hey, I'm trying to be upbeat about all of this.  I like snow, and I even like the cold, but ice? Now there's something I've had a love/hate relationship with all of my life.

Part of that probably comes from having lived on a hillside since the day I was born--and I was born in mid-Decemebr when the season of ice was just getting a grip.  My dad used to joke that we all had one leg longer then the other just so we could stand up straight.

My dad was an ice-fighter from way back.  He'd save the ashes from the fireplace to sprinkle on the paths leading down over the hilldside to the barn, the grainery and corn-cribs, and to where the car was parked--waiting to haul us to the Catholic school 5 miles away. 

I can picture an icy winter morning, making it almost to the top of the hill on the lane, my dad leaning slightly forward, a death-grip on the steering wheel, and he'd rock, forward, back, forward, back (not the car--him). The tires were singing as they spun at breakneck speed while we went nowhere. Just sitting on that hill spinning.

I could see my father's lips moving--not sure what he said to himself, but always sort of figured it was prayer--"Dear Lord, just nudge us up over this last little bit of hill and we'll be on our way."

And I knew that, just like me, my younger sister and all three of my brothers were, no doubt, reciting prayers of their own, "Dear Lord, please, don't let the car make it out the lane. Please, let us stay home today."

Obviously my dad's prayers held much more weight than ours--combined. I can't recall a single ice-fighting morning that we didn't make it out the lane, and then to the Catholic School. ~sigh~

One winter morning, years later (and years ago) , after my father (along with his direct prayer line to God on icy days) was gone, I was living in that same valley with those same hillsides.   I went to bed knowing that the night was cold outside of the house. Still, in the sub-freezing end of evening, there was something in the air, something faintly recognizable as a Chinook. There was something almost alien about the gentle wind kicking up. It felt like it could warm up a bit.

My alarm sounded at 4:00 AM, set so early so I could be on time for my 5:00 AM start at work. I hurried to dress and pack my lunch, then was ready to go.

I poked my head out the door and discovered that it was raining and  warmer than when I'd gone to bed.  Pennsylvania February...marginally less predictable than a Pennsylvania January.

I started down the hillside to where my Jeep was parked, doing the side shuffle-slide-scoot-scoot move with my feet the whole way down past the springhouse. Then the hill got really steep.  I sized it up in the pitch black of the winter morn, and knew I had no time to dally. So, I went for it.

The side shuffle move worked for a split second, and then I was on my hip, being sucked down the hill by gravity on the rain-slicked ice. There is not time to think when things like this happen. Any amount of elevation and subsequent grounding can lead to bad things--broken bones, concussions for example. So, I instinctively stretched uphill, sliding with my feet first.


The rainfall and the melting ice had converged at this part of the hill, fairly flushing me down in the middle of a small stream. Nothing like an ice cold romp in a temporary creek. ~the memory is funny--but I was pretty crabby that morning~.

I continued to gain speed, and in the darkness, even panicked, I could see the Jeep tires looming ahead. Stretching, I rolled from my side to my stomach, reaching...reaching...   while the world continued to blur behind me. I lunged for a tire, hoping to grab it's studded lug tread, but soon discovered how it must feel to compete in a greased pig contest at the county fair. I had it for a second, and then...gone.

I was now sliding down the hill on my stomach, perpendicular to the hill, making a five foot wide squeegie of the water ahead of me.  I won't lie: four letter words let loose from my mouth--and they weren't dang! or darn!  Briefly I pictured my journey continuing down across the lower pasture field,  and then being dumped into Rough Run Creek.

Right where things briefly leveled out, I finally slowed, you know, right where all of the water slowed too. I was now laying on my stomach, on top of ice, in a small pond/very large puddle. 

At this point, it became quite clear that it was actually a really bad idea to try to drive the Jeep out a half mile lane of sheet ice slicked with rain.

I then began the arduous journey back up the hill, on my hands and knees.  As the old saying goes, "three steps forward, two steps back."  The hill was a lot longer going up than it was coming down. 

Ice 1 Teresa 0.  I didn't make it to work that day.  It was one of those silver wintery days, when rain came and went, and a gray veil of mist hung among the trees and fields.  

My tea was hot, my clothes were dry and warm. And I'd added one more story of survival in the harsh winter of Camelot-not in this mid latitude existence.
 
  

Only One Answer: Love Endures

Beyond this snow covered winter wood,

an orchard where once grandma stood,

waits beneath the pewter sky

Soundless, dying, as time creeps by.

Years and ages, passed undefined,

Unbridled to yesterday, fate, resigned.

One question. Just one. Existence implores.

Oh aged trees, what endures?

In biting wind of the frigid clime,

Existence assailed only by time.

The tree, its branches lifted above,

without words, replied, only love.

Existence gazed on, apple tree afar,

rattling remains, gnarled branch and scar.

The answer, tell. Yon tree must be wrong.

Wind shook dry wood, a winter song.

I sang in beauty, one summer day,

my glory, fleeting, did not stay.

How was I once so, I can inform

loving eyes rested upon my form.

Yon tree, mindless, yet wizened much,

would have no life without loving touch,

of a woman death took long years ago,

who loved the orchard in sun, snow.

All things cease; life does pass,

beyond veil, horizon, looking glass.

Grandma, the orchard, mine, yours,

in time move on.  But love...endures.

In the dead of winter, the black of night,

When life has fled, even light,

Look to that across which all transcend

Love is the only and all, without end.

Wars, hatred, violence fade ever,

Love breathes life, tomorrow forever. 

One answer. Just one. To all afters, befores,

only one answer. Love endures.

 

 Copyright 2012 All rights reserved.  Teresa K Cypher

The Most Beautiful Tree...Ever

Today, while running through my mental list of stops along the Christmas marathon, I thought about getting our tree--a live one, the blank canvas on which we will create a masterpiece, the perfect one. Yeah, that's it: the perfect one.

By the time we get it home, we will have trekked across acres of tree farm, chosen and unchosen at least a half a dozen different trees, decided that the one farthest from the Jeep is THE one, had saw in hand aimed and ready only to decide that the one closest to the Jeep is actually much more perfect. (Are there really degrees of perfection?)

Every year.  Yep.  Every year it happens just like that.

With Clark Griswold in mind, we'll have it tied to the roof of the Jeep--which, with a long stretch of the imagination, resembles a station wagon.  

My thoughts wandered as my mind wondered.  A quote got stuck in my head.  Unlike a notorious song (think Dominic the Donkey) that gets stuck in a person's head, and then plays and replays and replays some more, there was nothing unpleasant about the quote.

"Remembrance , like  a  candle, burns brightest at Christmas time." The words of Charles Dickens certainly ring true.

Reminiscing about Yuletides past, I recalled a Christmas eve.  The kids were all here to help decorate the tree...and decorating the tree has never, ever been just a chore that must be done. No far from it.  It is a sweet, nostalgic journey through my history, my children's history and it becomes, in effect, story time.

Tim, son-in-law to be at the time, was part of the tree trimming that year.  And being so new to the family, he didn't already know all of the stories. So they were told with such relish...and perhaps exaggerated a 'tiny' bit.

We sorted through the ornaments after DdotCdot put all of the lights on, and <blush> no, there was not a problem with that set of lights...remember? Even though they didn't light when they were plugged into THAT outlet???  Why must we forget, every year, that a light switch on the wall controls power to THAT outlet.  

The tree was a con-color...and it cost way too much, but con-colors smell of tangerines, so we splurged  Every tiny pinch of pine needles gave way to the heady fragrance of citrus and pines and recollections of other Christmases.  The needles were soft; I had long before ceased giving into the urge for spruce trees.  Nothin' pretty about choosing to trim a tree while wearing leather gloves, or else bleed..

The ornaments came out of the boxes, one by one, and I watched as they graced tender branches with colors and shapes, noting how areas on the tree were framed by groupings of them. 

I smiled while listening to Zigzee and Tim discuss, and then agree, that it was okay to have groupings of similar Mexican clay ornaments.  I spoke out of habit, like I was reciting part of a memorized family tale, "The ornaments were a gift from Carol, one of my dearest friends."

Grandma Painter's ornament, my inheritance from her via my mother, as always, took a place high on the tree. My daughter just knows.  Old, glass, and my mom is no longer here to give me another, it's not a beautiful ornament by any aesthetic measure.  In fact, the old blue paint is rubbed off and chipped in places.  But the train wrapping around its sides is still clearly discernible as such.


The ornaments go on, quickly at times. Zigzee and I discussed just which sheep ornament is the 'old goat'.  We determined that one is, indeed, the ornament that she proudly told her grand-pap (23 years earlier) was him because he "Was an old goat." and I laughed at the words as she spoke them...

Ah yes, this ritual has been repeated oft enough that she knows the stories...and they have become part of her history...part of her Christmas ritual.

And the other sheep?  Well of course, it was Abe's... Abe Keck.  And Zigzee added "He was such a nice guy.  It's really neat how he made a different ornament every year to give to all of his friends."

I smile and nod...and know that she can't imagine how inside I cry, remembering...  My dad...my mom, my grandma...old Abe Keck...yes they were real treasures,  And I began to grasp the thought that this was the essence of the tree ...for me.  Memories and reminders of people who would never be forgotten; people who have touched our lives in such loving and wonderful ways...and we give them these few moments...every year, with only shiny baubles and wooden trinkets as memory prompts.

I placed the Dixie-cup bells (covered with aluminum foil) on the branches...and smiled as I realize I have done them as a paired 'grouping', lol... but inside a sob threatened to surface for all to see. I recalled tiny hands and proud faces as the bells were presented to me, years ago.

Next I found the 'sugar' scoops that were made in a high school metal shop class.  And then Zigzee reminded me again that I originally had it all wrong, "You know mom, I did make the sugar scoop. I liked metal shop; it was sewing class that I didn't like. It was the green apron that I paid someone, with my lunch money, to make for me."

I smiled at her sheepishly...imagining that I had ever gotten that one wrong. I can hardly wait to tell her children when the day comes, or the evening, while we hang that ornament on Grandma's tree!

I hung the sparkly drummer boy made of metal, on a lower branch. It could take the fall if it was bumped off by one of the dogs or a hasty passerby.  I saw glitter as I looked at it, but it was the glitter in Natters eye's that appeared to me. A little two year old nightingale, singing "Wumpapumpum" I actually giggled a little as I recalled his sincere efforts to hit the high notes.  He was indeed, my little drummer boy...

Followed next was a dated rocking horse...baby's first Christmas 1986.  I blinked back tears.  Astounded, pained, and humbled...where on earth had 20 years gone?

Tim asked if we had a pickle ornament and a spider to put on the tree?

I was caught without either.

So he told us that the pickle was for good luck. (I'll search for one for next year's tree) then I smiled at the thought, if the truth be known...I'm already lucky.  Look at my life? But, then again, who would turn away good luck? I'd look for a pickle.

The spider story he told us, was about a tree that was beautifully decorated, but  a spider wanted to add to it. So he crawled on the tree and spun his web all over it.  When Santa, or God (two versions) saw the web, to spare the feeling of the spider who had the best intentions, turned the dull gray web into shiny silver...and that's the story of how tinsel came to be put on trees.

Next, I placed the angel stretched out over an iridescent glass bubble, on a high branch...twin to one that I bought for my mom at a high end Christmas shop.  But this one I found at a flea market for a quarter... and I thought that it shined a little nicer for that.

And there were the handmade beaded and quilted and tasseled ornaments, Victorian in appearance, yet they blended in with this eclectic assortment of love and sweetness, history old and new.

Yes...they came from the flea market too, and they are classy, but that's not the reason they hang on my tree year after year. I can still see the man's face as he told me his story  

As I hung the ornaments I heard his voice tinged with wistful longing for a life that was anything other than the one that had wended its way to his front door.  His wife had developed severe dementia...and she was far more than he could  care for alone. So they'd entered into an agreement with a retirement home. It was one that could give her the care that she needed but still allowed him to stay near to her. But he had to sell their home to pay for the room and the care. So there he was, parting with the trappings of his life for a quarter here, half a buck there.

And in that moment, his memories became mine, part of his history became permanently intertwined with my history...and the sweetness and the sadness of their life was marked upon mine.  I know that mark will remain for as long as my mind is able to recall those moments we shared at that flea market, reminiscing the beauty of those ornaments.

The ornaments poured from boxes, along with memories pouring from lips. A handmade snowflake from my friend Karen. A handmade pressed glass ornament with a head of queen Anne's lace pressed between the layers of glass, and edged in copper...Lora, Brel's mom presented as a gift. A lace angel and a lace bell made by a dear older friend, Dot, as a thank-you gift for the invite to a gingerbread party.

Tim hung the manatee ornament that he gave us the year before as a thank-you for including him in our family trip to Crystal River to snorkel with the manatees.  Such a thoughtful young man... my daughter chose wisely :-)

The plastic Barqs bottle amputation was hung up high, like every other year, by Nathan.  He was, after all, the artist involved with the creation. 

Remove bottom of bottle, top of bottle, and drill a small hole in the side near top edge, insert bread tie for hanging loop and voila!  (I included instructions just in case pure envy or admiration had anyone burning to create one of their own)
 
Amanda (Nate's wife) decides that he must have done it when they were 16, because she can recall him doing it...and their lives have been sung as a duet since they were the tender age of 16. They were 25 that year.

DdotCdot placed the star on top of the tree, and was informed immediately by almost all present that the top needed to be pruned back a bit. I reached into the old vanity drawer and retrieved my small pruners; it took him three tries. "Better to take it a little at a time", he said, "because it's really tough to add it back on."

We added tinsel amidst whining... (it had become a bit of a task to others by now) but I insisted on NO clumping!  And that was the next discussion... about the etiquette involved with 'blobbing' on tinsel...to blob or not to blob? We reached an impasse. I refused to concede; my views stood, albeit disputed by my children.  :-)

And then the  candy canes, and we could not believe that Tim had never tasted buttered popcorn flavored jelly bellies????  So he was gifted a buttered popcorn flavored candy cane.  

I always try to do my part to quell ignorance in this world!

The decorating was done, the stories once again told. All that was left to do was take pictures...because that tree was THE most beautiful tree ever... ever... really...  Or until I decorate another one. :-)    From our family to yours, merry Christmas, everyone. :-)

Please enjoy the holiday themed posts of other participants of the Meet the Family Holiday Hop

Six Sentence Sunday: December 2, 2012

Six Sentence Sunday is a bloghop--and one of the friendliest. Participants post six sentences of their writing, then the fun begins. Readers hop from blog to blog, sharing opinions, critiques and encouragement.  We know what a solitary pursuit writing can be--and Six Sentence Sunday is a great way to meet other writers, and take a break from our solitude. Complete rules and a sign up form are at the site here.

Returning to my WIP, ATNS.  A snippet from a dream sequence. Cuylrh has taken Marissa to a place he's never shared with a woman.  A hilltop on a world near the outer rim of the night sky. She fell asleep beside him after they watched the sunset. And now he can't sleep. His conscience is tearing him apart. He has sinned in the eyes of his Giver, broken a rule of his faith, and possibly committed treason by taking the Earth woman. He has to make a decision, and he and Marissa could pay dearly if he follows his heart.

“Roadmaps. That’s what shone above Cuylrh. But they were more than that. A connection to the Giver, a constant reminder that there's more to this existence than one lifetime.   

Somewhere, out among the  vastness of that road-map of stars, likely beyond any familiar part of it, Rissa’s world must be turning.  Fate had brought her to him. And in his heart of hearts, he knew there was no sin in what he’d done.  It would have been a sin if he’d left her behind.  He sighed. Others would see it differently." 

Let me have it. :-) Comments, suggestions, criticisms? All much appreciated. 

Please visit the other Sunday sixers here:  sixsunday.com