Nellie Long and the Golden Locket (F)

Uncle Seve was on his knees carefully pruning the cucumbers. Nellie was deadheading roses and singing softly to herself as she worked.

“Nellie, go see what Rex is barking at.” Uncle Seve’s dog was in the back corner of the yard where old flower beds waited for vegetables next year.

Nellie walked along the back fence to stay in the shade. She could see Rex standing in one of the beds.

“Rex! What are you doing?” she asked. The dog looked at her and then started digging down into the weeds and grass. Nellie stepped up next to the dog.

“What do you see?” She gently moved the dog over a bit. Something was there, a box maybe, something shiny. Yes, a little metal box not much bigger than her hand.

Nellie lifted it from the dirt. While it had some dents and scratches, it didn’t have any rust.

“Uncle Seve! Look what I found.” Nellie trotted over to her uncle.

“Well, that is very strange. What in the world?”

“Rex found it. Can we open it?”

“Might as well.” Uncle Seve used his garden scissors to cut the strap holding the box closed.

“Wow!” he said. He tipped the box toward Nellie. “Look at that.”

Inside was a gold locket on a very thin chain. It looked brand new.

“Wow” said Nellie. “It’s beautiful!”

Uncle Seve took out the locket and handed it to her. “That belonged to your great-great-great-grandmother, but it has been missing for 15 or 20 years.  How in the world did it get out there, I wonder.”

Nellie held the locket in her hand. “Can I wear it?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

She gently pulled it over her head and ponytail and down around her neck.

“Looks good, Nellie. I think you should have it.”

“Thank you, Uncle Seve!”

“Finished with the roses?”

“Not yet.” Nellie picked up her garden shears and went back to the roses in the corner.

While she cut the brown petals, her left hand held on to the locket. She felt a sort of warm feeling in her heart. Nellie smiled, a real piece of jewelry, a golden locket, a very old locket.

Nellie closed her eyes. She felt kind of funny. Kind of tingly. She felt herself swaying back and forth a bit. It was a little like being on a boat. Yes, a big boat. With lots of other people.

She was wrapped in a big winter coat and a scarf. All the other people were wearing coats and hats and gloves. It was that cold. And she could look out and see the ocean and the waves and the clouds.

Where was she going? Who were these people? She took pink wool gloves out of her pocket and put them on.

Suddenly it began to snow and some people started singing a Christmas song. Nellie could hear herself singing along with them—“Hark the Herald angels sing!”

A young sailor walked by, calling to the people standing on the ship’s deck, “Tomorrow you will be in America!” He smiled at her. “Yes, Marie, tomorrow you will be in America.”

America at last, she thought. A new home, a new life. All these miles. Crossing the ocean. She could feel how excited they all were. Even the sailors.

“Nellie. Nellie!”

“What? Oh, yes, Uncle Seve.”

“You still with me?” Uncle Seve smiled at her. “What was going on in that head of yours?”

“What was her name?” She held out the locket.

“Why she was Marie Rose Kennedy. From Ireland.”

“How did she get here?”

“Well, I don’t know the whole story, but she came by herself when she was 19. Came by boat, I know that.”

Nellie laughed. “Well, I already knew that, Uncle Seve.”

Uncle Seve shook his head and laughed, too. “You’re a funny girl, Nellie.”

Nellie gave the locket another little squeeze and began clipping the roses again.

 

 

 

 

 

Wither, Glory!

Success, if success is not falling to my knees. Or doing a face plant.

The name of the game--pickleball. Chuckle all you want, but I was glad to find myself surrounded this morning by fellow retirees. No one here was beating me in a sprint of 2 or 3 strides. Okay, Andrew, the 38-year-old organizer, maybe. Maybe definitely.

Fleet of foot, Achilles dashed beyond the reach of expectations. My mind said see the ball, hit the ball. My body responded with a resounding, uh, perhaps that could happen. No Achilles I. 

Is it tennis? No, mercifully. I last played tennis (singles) 25 years ago. Yes, before the advent of the century. But folks were talking about it. 

And it's not badminton. And it's not ping pong. Oh, right, table tennis. Since we're in the throes of Olympian heroics.  

I shanked shots, barreled into the forbidden zone near the net, missed overheads by a foot. Dude, the paddle is way shorter than a tennis racket. But, I remained upbeat as I did not smash my doubles partner in the head while lunging after unreachable shots.

Much of the game is being played below waist level, really at the knees. Fine. However, wearing bifocals makes for an interesting problem of timing and space. O' keen-eyed Hermes, shrewd and on point. No Hermes I.

I did not fall to my knees.

After drills and videos and short games, the greater number of fellow paddle-teers left the arena. My doubles partner and I took on Andrew in what would be a lopsided tussle. Okay, no tussling. We were felled by this mighty Ajax 11-3, 11-1. No Ajax I.

I did not smash my partner in the head.

Are you acquainted with the word hubris? So Karen retreated to the safety of her car, the last quartet filed out as well, and what do I ask for. 

"Show me your game serve." Otherwise, "Show me the bullet coming out of your gun."

Whiff. Whiff. Shank. Shank. Dude, move back a step. Shank. Return. Shank. Shank. Return. Return.

"Okay" the hale and hearty warrior called out,"now my real serve with a slice." Hardly hale and hearty I.

Whiff. Shank. Shank. Shank. Shank. Dude, move your feet. Shank. Whiff. Return. Whiff--anyway. Enough.

"Come back Wednesday" said the good-hearted fellow.

I'm thinking, Wednesday, like in 48 hours Wednesday?

Hell to the yes!

Thurs 2fer: A Blog with a View & An Index (9)

                                                    A Blog with a View

One post, one view, gratifying. From the get-go with this blog, my stance. I subscribe to this point-of-view as Miscellany lurches toward 10,000 views.

Surprising. I attribute that count mostly to persistence. Sort of like my gardening results—just keep putting stuff out there.

Surprised by my surprise? Feel free to chuckle, guffaw, chortle and/or roll your eyes. Remember, however, I was born in 1953 and cut my writing teeth on one of these bad boys.

That someone should attend to one of my efforts, well, like I said to two of my nieces, the competition for attention is so wide ranging now that when I consider readers—strangers—from other countries giving me a read—amazing.

Readers in Estonia?

So, I keep posting and in the vast expanse of today’s media sources, voila!

As an aside, I once told a student if she didn’t go public with her work, she was just journaling or keeping a diary. Not that there is anything wrong with those efforts. Truly.

And I am aware how small my results splashing about in the oceans of options. Not a splash. Not really a drop. Maybe a molecule. Maybe.

But that’s okay. Some folks hang an original painting in a local restaurant. Some folks put their photos on the backs of t-shirts. And some folks sling some words together and offer them to the world.

If you have read my pieces, thank you. Maybe you will come back around for a few more. sk

                                An Index (9)

Friend or foe? Follow the dough. 2020 export totals for South Carolina:

20     Russia                $351.3M

19     Singapore          427.8M

18     Brazil                 461.8M

17     Netherlands        466.7M

16     Saudi Arabia       512.2M

15     Thailand             528.6M

14     U. A. E.              537.4M

13     France               575.2M

12     India                 612.3M

11     Spain                 757.3M

10     Australia            842.9M

9      Taiwan               855.4M

8      South Korea       1.2B

7      Japan                1.2B

6      UK                    1.4B

5      Belgium             1.4B

4      Mexico               1.8B

3      China                 3.9B

2      Canada              4.0B

1      Germany            4.1B

 

The Garden

I will not get the words quite right.

And yet.

Away from the world, we,

and yet, always in the world.

Should you be sitting here with me?

Should you be sitting here with me….

This green world infused so.

Life, lives, living.

Should I say I love you?

Should I say I love you….

As the word is not the thing,

how then to say the thing.

Is our being here, our beings here,

afloat within this time and space—enough?

My curse,

the word ineffable that I cling to as true above all others.

Should we sit in a silence….

If shared, how so?

I want to reach over and take your hands in mine.

Gentle hands.

Gentle hearts.

What I have spoken.

Look—

the Kerria blossoms reaching for the Heavenly bamboo.

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

A Sudden Light (F)

So it would fall to Evan to break the news to Laura. Her brother Jack called and asked Evan to be the one, that somehow by phone would not be right.

“I mean, I hate it, you know, but Evan you know the story and—“

“It’s okay. I’ll do it. She’ll be back in from her run soon. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, man. Tell her to call me, you know, after.”

“I will. Take it easy. We’ll be up, of course.”

“Thanks. Thanks, man. See y’all soon.”

Evan set his phone down and glanced at the front door. Maybe it would be better not to go to her as she walked in. Maybe let her get inside and get her shoes off and pad into the kitchen for a glass of water.

He used a pencil to mark his place in the book he was reading and stood and stretched. Maybe out on the patio. Or maybe the place did not matter so much.

Outside, Evan pulled their chairs to the corner shaded by the maple, the early evening sun dimming as it dropped toward the hills. How to say it, what words to use, to make any kind of small talk before breaking the news.

He sat. Small talk suddenly struck him as absurd. But. Evan leaned back a bit and crossed his legs. Two mocking birds were flying in and out of the maple.

“Evan?” Her voice through the screen door.

“Out here, Hon.”

“Okay, let me get some water. Need anything?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

He heard the screen door scraping open. Turning, he half-smiled at her. “I know, I know, it’s still sticking.”

“Character, I suppose. Isn’t that we say about this house. Lots of character.” She sat down next to him and set her glass down on the small table between them. “What a great run. Perfect. And no wind.”

Evan looked at her, trying to read her face, trying to keep his face undecipherable.

“I saw the Johnsons out,” she said. “They’re so cute. Both had their walkers. I guess that will be us some day.”

Evan nodded. “Yep, suppose so.”

She shook out her ponytail and leaned forward and brought her hair over her head and then lifted it back and let it fall to her shoulders.

“Beautiful.”

“What?”

“You look beautiful.”

“Sweaty.”

“Beautiful.”

“Sweet thing.”

“Uh, Laur, uh, Jack called.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Bill, Uncle Bill.”

She widened her eyes and took in a short breath. “No” she whispered.

“Yes. A few hours ago. I’m so sorry, Honey.” He reached over and squeezed her hands.

“Oh, no, Evan. No. I mean I knew it was coming. But, no.”

“He was a good man and he loved you very much.”

“He was a good man. So good to me. Good to us.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Evan.” She swallowed a sob.

“I know.”

Laura looked out across the yard and beyond the fence to the clouds hovering above the ridge.

“Jack wants you to call. When you want to, of course.”

“Jack.” She wiped her eyes. “Why did he wait—doesn’t matter.”

“No, not really.”

They sat quietly, the sun disappeared behind the hills. The gazebo lights popped on.

Laura flinched. “That seems early.”

“Daylight savings ends tonight. I reset the timer.

“I forgot about that.”

“Not important.”

“No, but a thing to be done. I think we should have some wine.”

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tug Baker and the Big Bamboo (F)

Just after his morning cereal, Tug Baker first saw the bamboo growing next to the chicken coop. One small green shoot, about as big as a drawing pencil.

Tug filled the water bowls for the chickens and went back up to the house. Next he filled the water bowls for the dogs, Macy and Lacy. 

Just one more chore, then he could explore what the day would bring. Tug poured more sand in the little sandbox for the twins to play in later that morning.

Tug looked back down the hill. He looked again. Was that the bamboo, now almost as tall as him?  He trotted down to the growing shoot. Well, more than a shoot now. As thick as his arm.

He looked around. No, no one else there. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the bamboo.

“Wow!” Tug jumped back. The bamboo grew another 4 feet just like that.

Tug scratched his head. What to do next?

“Here goes!” He grabbed the bamboo again. The bamboo shot up 8 feet and was as thick as the barrel of his mother’s softball bat.

Now Tug could see this could be an adventure, and he liked adventures.

Tug leaned forward and bravely grabbed the bamboo with both hands.

“Yippee!” Tug called out. The bamboo again grew 8 feet and lifted him right off the ground. He wrapped his legs around the bamboo cane.

Each time he squeezed the bamboo, up, up, up it grew. Now he was looking down on the chicken coop. The clucking chickens were looking up at him. Barking, the dogs came running out to see what was going on.

Another squeeze, his legs wrapped tight, and farther he went toward the clouds.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Tug smiled his biggest smile. He could see the mail truck coming up the street. He could see Mr. Dixon mowing his front lawn. He could see his friend Nick’s house.

“Higher!” And higher he went. Two robins flew around him. A crow went winging by.

Now Tug could see the whole neighborhood like a toy village below him.

About this time, Tug’s mother came out to look for him. She had the twins, Mary and Carrie, one on each hip.

“Tug!” she called.

No answer.

“Tug!” a little louder.

Still, no answer.

“Tug Baker! Where are you?” She looked around and then she saw it, the giant bamboo, like a new tree that popped up out of nowhere.

She set the twins down in the sandbox.

Once she got down to the bamboo, she of course looked up.

Tug was now so high he could see the 7-Eleven and Arby’s and Bojangles and Highland Water Park and Thomas Smith Elementary School.

“What in the world!” his mother yelled. “Tug! Tug Baker! You get down right now!”

Tug heard his mother and called down, “Hey, Mom, look at me!”

“I am looking at you, Mister!  You get down now!”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m holding on real tight.”

“Theodore Anthony Baker! Right! Now! This! Second!”

Now it’s very important to know when your mother is serious. And Tug knew she was very serious. Her arms were folded and one foot was tapping the ground.

“Okay, okay, I’ll come down. Promise!”

Each time Tug dropped down, the bamboo got a little shorter. A little farther down, a little shorter.

Before he knew it, he was just above the roof’s top. His mother was still waiting, foot still tapping.

Almost there, back on the ground.

 

“Tug. Tug. Tug, wake up. Sleepy head,” his mother said. “Time to get up.”

Tug put his feet on the floor and stretched out his arms. “Ouch!” His arm muscles were so tired. Like he had been climbing or something all night long.

But he was hungry for his morning cereal and the chores were waiting for him, too.

 

 

Grapefruit

I have a loved-hate relationship with grapefruit. A history, if you will.

When I was a kid growing up in Florida, I had access to plenty of good grapefruit. Indian River grapefruit was a go-to for locals and for tourists, who would snatch up bags of the fruit from roadside stands to carry back to wherever land.

My maternal grandfather even had a tree, which he kept more bush-like and no more than 5' tall. That one tree would yield dozens and dozens of the fruit. His secret ingredients for a fertilizer were coffee grounds and fish guts wrapped in newspaper and buried under or next to plants. 

I remember using a special spoon designed to cut into the sections and sort of saw out the grapefruit. Coated the fruit with a layer of sugar and dug in.

Yep, I loved my grapefruit.

Loved that is until I soured on them after making a trip with my dad's brother to a citrus grove in Lakeland County. The details--my memories--are limited, but I do remember riding in the back of a farm truck and pulling off oranges and eating a few of them as we bounced around.

Then we got into the grapefruit rows. I guess my uncle was cutting them in half for me, and one followed another and another and another, and that stretch of the excursion allowed me to eat 6 grapefruit.

Now, obviously, no would think eating 6 grapefruit in essentially a single round would be smart. But, I was a kid and no one as I recall offered up a "Whoa, son, take it easy there".

Or "extreme gastrointestinal distress headed your way". Okay, maybe unlikely that.

Maybe cute little phrases like "Gonna get a tummy ache" or "bad stomach"--uh, not even close.

How about gut-ripping pains that brought me to my knees, or horribly twisted knots in my digestive system that may me whimper like a sick puppy?

Getting closer.

Clearly a moment when you ought to die, need to die, deserve to die.

Oh, the humanity!

That along and along The Grapefruit Diet would become a thing--grapefruit with every meal for a week to 10 days--to be touted as a surefire way to drop 10 pounds baffled me. The thought turned my stomach. To deliberately have grapefruit with every meal for a week or more? Just say no!

Did I ever eat grapefruit again? Hardly ever. Can I remember the last time I had grapefruit. Not really, though I feel safe in saying not for 40 or 50 years. 

But, of course, I o-d'ed on grapefruit. And my friends, not good. Not good at all.

 

Thursday Twofer: Something Old, Something New

                      Small Things

I did not learn early enough to savor

the smaller things of life—in this life—

just a single moment shared as precious

as the tiniest blossom—of course,

so much easier to be awed by an avenue

of flowering redbuds, pink petals being

unsprung by a spring breeze, feathering

across a lane—the slightest smile,

for just a moment, or a grazing of an arm,

not even with the hand, a fingertip,

the tucking back of the hair behind your ears,

the saying of my name, a gentle giggle

at my awkwardness—too easily dazzling,

a grand panorama across the range, uneven

in colors as clouds and sun contend with one another—

a footfall, a sidelong glance—easy, too, to be humbled

at the ocean, early enough to be in solitude

with the dog bounding ahead—you taking my hand

in yours, for just one moment, small things.

Ladson 2016

                        Pebbles

Vexed, oh I am.

Weak, too, a caving in—

circumstances beyond our control, you know.

I want to grab a rock

twice the size of my hand

And hurl it—

a big hollowing sploosh.

 

Nose out of joint, even

a dose of self-pity.

Weaker, weakest.

I want to muscle a larger rock to the cliff’s edge

and tumble it down,

to launch waves racing, to the far side

and halfway back again.

 

More, I would say.

But, your pond.

So, no.

Nary a pebble will I toss.

Your pond, then,

still.

Lyman 2021

 

 

Bait & Hook

They baited, I clicked.

"The superpowers you acquire in your 60s" read the teaser in my email from NewScientist magazine.  Sure, almost 68, but hey, in...my...60s.

Okay, the word superpowers is a stretch, mostly common sense backed up by research and some significant changes in perceptions about the accruing of years.

First, the physical element--you know that anatomical body we steer through life. Everyone, nearly, seems on board with more exercise as we age. Get moving, tax your muscles, make play part of the routine. 

Eat healthy food, get plenty of sleep, and read books that make your mind exercise. All right, I added that last element--former English teacher syndrome (FET). Still.

After wrestling with Type 2 since my early 50s, I've settled on eating habits that have dropped my weight 27 pounds since January. No, I'm not dieting. I weigh the same (211) as in my early 40s for the first time, well, since my early 40s.

By the way, my doctor still insistently trots out 190 as my ideal weight. I tell him the same thing each time--Doc, I played club lacrosse at LSU while weighing 190. Not happening.

Further good news is being tossed my way on the cognitive front: It's not as bad as the cliches and the medical community have long held. That forgetfulness issue, for example. Research suggests my more mature brain is more readily disregarding trivial factoids than when I was younger. Selecting for the wheat, one might say. 

Culling out the crap, to cut to the chase.

Of course, not good enough to say the mind doesn't necessarily erode like Nag's Head in a nor'easter. Learn new stuff is the mantra. New as in truly new to your experiences accumulated to date.

Read books that make your mind exercise. I know, I know.  

To a certain degree, quality of life may boil down to what you're doing with what you've got. I don't know for sure. Sometimes I think an awful lot of don't knows go with current territory. 

Fortunately the article does toss me a life ring by proposing my 70s will be my peak stretch for reasoning wisely and better decision-making. 

Yippee!

 

Thursday Twofer

                         Cut Flowers

Cut flowers, I will not

bring to your table.

I would rather they hold their place,

in sun and rain, where the wind

finds them out, not on the mantle

or a counter, not in a deep bowl

or narrow vase.

Think me not unkind,

will not does not mean want not.

Your pleasure reaped

by what our hands have planted

doubles then as my joy too.

But something more

there is, I think,

to be honored,

rather than a still life, severed

from where it began,

something of a wildness—

yes, that we share but we cannot tame.

Ladson 2013

    Geography 101

You have become—

we have become—

a geography of a sort,

flagged by Mexican restaurants,

pizza joints, and an ice cream parlor, 

garden centers, push-pinned all—

together, our eyes closed, under evening skies,

even a morning or two or three,

here and there,

or beneath the noontide sun,

our eyes shielded,

we lean in after a meal to say goodbye,

to push off across our little charted piece of this world—

I reach out, sometimes over the front seat console

with my hand, or

as I did so last night while sitting in my recliner,

only to find you not there,

gone now, beyond the edges of my map,

so an unanchoring, this unbounding.

Ladson 2013