“There’s a man with a gun over there…”

marysmoments4life:

My hubby has finally started his own blog! While our writing styles are very different, his tongue-in-cheek humor (even if you don’t agree with his views) are hilarious!

Originally posted on A Berg's Eye View:

Gun Guys Agree on Dress Code

(Fairfax, Virginia, Thursday) – Normal citizens will finally be able to distinguish bad guys from good guys with guns, thanks to a deal brokered here today by the National Rifle Association.

“The next time you meet a shopper carrying a semi-automatic firearm in the aisles of your local supermarket, just look for the white hat,” said Wayne LaPierre, NRA executive vice president, who served as chief facilitator in the accord. “If he’s wearing one, he’s a good guy.”

Drawing from the symbolism of the Old West, the agreement simplifies things immensely for fearful average Americans uncertain about the intentions of the gunslingers they are encountering more frequently every day. Anyone toting a gun who is not wearing the tell-tale white hat is now suspect and a fair target for every properly white-hatted gunman exercising his right to stand his ground. Unarmed citizens now need…

View original 147 more words

Eighth Wonder of the World

053

It is ordinary to those who become accustomed to its beauty and extraordinary to travelers viewing its uniqueness for the first time. It’s name, Schoolhouse Beach, would not scream Eighth Wonder of the World, yet it very well should. It is a natural all-stone beach with crystal clear waters that expand beyond the eye’s view.

We simply call it Schoolhouse. I have lain upon its stones in the darkness watching stars that are not visible in the city lights. In my crazy misbegotten youth, I stripped off my clothes in an alcohol-induced frenzy and skinny-dipped with wild abandonment in its waters. I unsuccessfully attempted skipping stones for over 50 years while I watched all the men in my life – my grandpa, dad, brothers and son pick up a small round stone and effortlessly dance it across its blue waters. I watched with joy and trepidation for three July 8ths in a row as we celebrated my mom’s birthday in its tree-lined picnic shelter…silently praying that we would celebrate another as lung cancer ravaged her body but not her spirit.

In its small cemetery beyond the waters, it holds the markers of my mother, grandparents and all that preceded them. It calls me home.

The Feeding of the Masses

I’ve been at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival all week and yesterday’s writing prompt was food. I instantly knew the story that needed writing!

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Nanny’s buttermilk pancakes were legendary in our family. Upon arrival on Washington Island for a family Christmas in July party or to celebrate our many family summer birthdays, the first family to arrive to the Island on Friday night would stop at Mann’s General Store and grab two quarts of buttermilk – before the summer people got them – and swing by Nanny’s to drop them off on their way to mom and dad’s house. A quick knock on the door to give her fair warning and then they’d push their way in. Nanny would grab the buttermilk from your hands and gruffly state, “Well, I don’t know that I’ll be making pancakes this weekend.” We would oblige her and beg, “Please Nanny, would you please make pan-a-cakes sometime this weekend?” Of which she’d snort while her eyes danced with pleasure and say, “We’ll see.” It was all part of the routine.

My grandma was not your typical rocking chair kind of grandma. A full-blooded Norwegian, she was a complex combination of love and sass. Nanny was more of a “do you have time for a game and a cocktail” kind of grandma. She loved nothing more than to pull out the cards and cribbage board and prompt you to deal up a “hand” while she mixed you a little drink. After several cribbage games (which were played for $1 a game) as well as several cocktails, you’d regretfully push your way from her kitchen table and make your way out the door to your next stop – the parent’s house.

Saturday was never pancake day as people were still arriving for whatever event it was that was being held for the weekend. Nanny was also busy Saturday morning baking and frosting the heaviest and tastiest carrot cake you could ever have the good fortune to taste. It was her donation to the family event of that day. I remember one year, she made some kind of torte instead of the traditional carrot cake and we all looked at her like she was Benedict Arnold.

The pancake breakfast was always held on Sunday morning before we packed up our belongings and headed to the ferry, which would take us back to the mainland and our real lives. Our seemingly reluctant pancake-making grandma was on the horn calling my parent’s house by 8:00 Sunday morning to see when the troops would arrive. My mother would reassure her that we would all arrive by 9:00 and she would do her best to get her motley crew moving. Mind you, this was no small task. Our family consisted of 8 kids all with significant others and a large contingency of children of all ages, shapes and sizes. All told, Nanny could on any given family-event weekend be turning flapjacks for upwards of 30 people.

We’d arrive in shifts. As we’d walk through the door to Nanny’s small retirement apartment, we’d breath in the smells of bacon, sausage, coffee and ohhh, buttermilk pancakes. The table would be set with a stack of plates, a pile of forks, butter, homemade maple syrup, strawberries and whipped cream. If you got there early enough, you would see the master chef mixing flour, salt, baking soda, egg and finally, buttermilk and just a bit of melted butter to a lumpy consistency. There would be numerous hot, greased pancake griddles anxiously awaiting the moment that the delectable batter would grace its surface and the ever so delicate and fluffy pancake would begin to take shape.

As the pancakes near their completion, rich golden brown discs the size of saucers with a lightness that would make one think they could simply float from the griddle, the first shift anxiously awaits their arrival. A stack of eight levitate to the center of the table and the breakfast soldiers quickly glance at one another and mentally do the math. If I take more than one, who will be left out in the dark. From the kitchen, the commander reminds them to empty the serving plate as another batch is nearly ready. That’s all they need and the reaching hands capture their prize.

The average eater could do about five of Nanny’s pancakes. These folks came and went from the dining room table and quickly made room for the next shift. They were common, ordinary, run of the mill sort of connoisseurs that the Pancake Princess simply fed. It was those brazen eaters – the ones that fell into a competition with one another to see just who was the pancake king of the weekend that captured Nanny’s heart. Nine, ten, twelve, uff dah, sixteen pancakes. The more they ate, the bigger the smile that graced my grandma’s face. Eventually, the competition would end with a groan and a belch and more often than not, my brother-in-law, Terry would once again be declared the winner. He would rub his belly and smile the victor’s smile. It was little wonder that he was the apple of my grandma’s eye.

My grandma died in 2008 and with it died the Sunday morning buttermilk pancake tradition. My brother, Patrick, has my grandma’s recipe and occasionally will rustle up a Sunday morning pancake breakfast. His pancakes are good, but they are not Nanny’s pancakes. They are made with the same ingredients and the same technique, but they are missing that one special quality. They are missing Nanny and that’s an ingredient that will never again be matched.

The Trapdoor

She sits on the edge
of the trapdoor heart pounding
Do not be afraid

Do not be afraid?
Asks the little girl inside
I am only five and I’m scared

I fell down these stairs
when my sister tackled me
in 1960

Fitfy-four years gone
and the trapdoor steals my breath
and fills me with fear

Image

 

My twist – I don’t think I’ve ever written a haiku before!

 

The Bricklayer’s Debt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY FICTIONEERS: THE CHALLENGE:

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

THE KEY:

MAKE. EVERY. WORD. COUNT.

Image

 

They found the tools and the chair when they cleaned out the attic after Papa’s death.

He was trained in dentistry before the war – before the Nazis came and destroyed their yesterdays, todays and tomorrows. He survived the concentration camp by pulling gold fillings out of his comrades’ teeth on their way to the ovens. Once liberated, he swore he would never profit from that which caused so much agony.

The meticulous records of the bricklayer showed each and every patient he treated in his attic over the last 65 years along with their payments. 

           Mrs. Kletcha              Filling                         Pickled Beets
           Mr. Schneider            Abscess                     Repaired latch            
           Little Heinrich            Broken tooth              Paint fence

A debt that could not be paid.

Beyond Your Nose

 

 

 

 

 

Image

Image

“Grammy, please tell me the story of Abe and Bessie,” the persistent six year-old pleads. She sighs and begins.

Abe was a handsome and sturdy young man from the city. Bessie a shy, wee lass fresh from the farm. Their paths crossed by chance, and it was love at first sight. They married six months to the day that they met.

“Bessie, my darlin’,” he would coo, “I would give you the world if I had it to give.”

“Abe, my love,” she’d chastise with arms spread wide. “Look beyond your nose. I have the world.”

With that, Bessie gently pinches her great granddaughter’s nose and tucks it in her pocket

Field of Dreams

 Image

He was idealistic, patriotic, naïve and just one day shy of his 19th birthday when he got his orders. Afghanistan. The furthest he’d ever been from home was boot camp and golly; he was headed to a foreign land.

He walked the path one last time drinking it all in. The creek where he and his buddy, Fitch, caught suckers. The tree that still held a couple of girlie magazines in its hollowed out knot. The sweet, clean smell of the grassy pasture.

He lies dying in the desert. He shivers in the cool, crisp autumn air as the fog rolls over his pasture. At peace, he closes his eyes.

Honor those who serve.

 

Previous Older Entries

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 136 other followers