A small group of seniors introduced themselves to me in the park one day last fall. Their expressions bore the spots and scars of age. One leaned precariously on another for support, her shriveled face lined and soft.
Inspired to stop and say hello, their friendly smiles brightened. They welcomed me to sit a while. It had been some time since someone had. They spoke to me of the sunnier, warmer season of their youth; of children who adored them and women who knew their names.
As I stood to leave, I snapped a photo, capturing their withered, fragile forms. We come to this world innocent, as young and flawless blossoms. It’s the storms we weather and the joy we encounter that engrave wisdom on our bodies and bestow upon us beauty.
Peace . . .
One of the things that attracts me to vintage and antique things is they have stories, and even if I don’t know the stories, I make them up.
–Mary Kay Andrews
There is something clean and new about the lacy icicles, but long after they melt, the abandoned concrete plant will still be standing.
To participate or check out other interpretations of this week’s Weekly Photo Challenge on The Daily Post, click Story.
Peace . . .
The young woman at the craft store asked me what I was going to do with all the yarn. When I told her I was going to make granny squares, she said, “Oh, that’s so nice. I wish my granny would have done that with me.”
Okay, first of all . . . yeah. And secondly . . . . just . . . yeah. I have no words.
Making a granny square was on my bucket list. I’ve learned some pretty advanced needle art techniques on my own, but for the life of me, I just never could figure out crochet. Jayda gets a little silly-giggly for me in her intros, but if you can get past that, her tutorials are clear and thorough. Since subscribing to this channel, I’ve made afghans, dishcloths, potholders, scarves and hats! And I suspect her knitting videos are just as good.
Crocheting like a granny!
Peace . . .
My memory lane is a train track. You might say it’s more of a Memory Line than a Memory Lane. The tracks ran less than a block from my house. I can still remember the mournful cries of the whistles announcing their approach in and out of Minneapolis.
We spent hot summer days under trees on a piece of land we called we called the ditch. The ditch was as long as our neighborhood, 100 to 200 feet wide. It ran alongside the tracks, and despite how fearsome it sounds, was the perfect playground for my mates and me. We climbed trees, both upright and felled and made moguls for bicycles. And the trains rumbled by. Sometimes we’d race toward the tracks to see the engineer at his place in front. We’d pump our arms to see if he’d toot the whistle and jump for joy if he did.
Holly Shopping Center is still less than a mile from where I grew up, but several other of our hangouts are gone. We biked or walked, and always crossed the tracks to get anywhere. We played a game to see who could stare at the top of the cars the longest. As they flew by, the wind swooshed against our bodies, and the train seemed to be falling down on top of us. Our screams of delight rivaled the roar of the cars. And always at the end, there was the red caboose.
As a toddler, clean from the bath and dressed in flannel, I’d sit on my mother’s lap looking out at the moon from our big living room window. We snuggled and she bounced me on her lap. Sometimes she’d read The Little Engine That Could. One of the songs she sang was Little Red Caboose. We’d get to the end and I’d join in. “Little red caboose behind the train . . . toot, toot!”
On nights when sleep defied me, I’d wait in the darkness and listen. At night you could hear the trains from miles away, blowing their whistle at each crossing.
I still like to hear the reassuring rumble of a train from my bed. As the cars drift away . . . clickety, clickety, clickety . . . they pull me back to my childhood home, and deep into dreamland.
Peace . . .
I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.
— Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens
Every year there seem to be some lingering decorations to put away long after the holidays have passed. Maybe that’s why it feels like Christmas is either coming or going. After all, there are only 293 shopping days left.
Peace . . .
No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.
Bubba just got in from snow-blowing six inches. And it’s still snowing. I never mind a spring snowstorm. He might disagree.
A spring snowstorm reminds you of how much you want the spring. It imprisons you in your house for a day and heightens the anticipation of warm walks and buzzing bees. A spring snowstorm is old man winter boasting his strength, even under the lengthening days. Even in my weariness of cold and boots and shoveling I must admit it’s pretty. And I have to wonder if this is the last pristine white snowfall until next year. It’s like wishing a toddler would grow, and at the same time trying to appreciate each day.
Is this the last time you’ll help him with his boots?
Hopefully. Sorrowfully. Maybe.