Posts Tagged ‘memories’

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This guy’s evidently going and I’m not lion. (But he is.) Anyway, here’s a version of the song that brought this silliness to mind, a flash from a past I was alive during but didn’t partake in (inhaling or exhaling.) However, I did love the 60’s music. Enjoy.

 Wonderful days with my parents, brother and grandparents at my grandparents’ farm in Surprise, Nebraska…

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To see more photos in the Weekly Photo Challenge, click here:  http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/07/05/nostalgic/

Amish friendship bread popped up (so to speak) in a novel I read last week, reminding me of my own horrifying experience with it many years ago.  I’d just moved to Cleveland to teach high school and found a church I liked.  One of the women there gifted me with the makings of Amish friendship bread. (more…)

In memory of my father-in-law, Wayne Webb, who landed at Omaha Beach and also in the Pacific,
and
with thanks to my father
and all men and women in all branches of the service: those who served, those who died,
those who still serve, and to all of their families.

Thank you.  We remember. (more…)

A scimitar moon hangs in the blue-black sky as I drive home. A train passes silently along the tracks, silently because I’m cocooned in the van. Lights shine from inside the cars, warming the night, and although it’s merely a commuter train, it plucks memories from my heart, memories of trips to visit my grandparents in California.

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How many years does it take for children’s songs to fade from your brain?  The answer seems to be an infinite number, so choose those songs carefully!  Our girls loved Sharon, Lois, and Bram and one of the songs they sang comes from Burl Ives and before him from folk song history.  It’s called “Lavender Blue” and the lyrics and lovely melody SL&B sang have been in my head all these years.  It inspired the title of this week’s story.

If you’re new to Friday Fictioneers, each week on Wednesday, a number of addicted writers wait with great anticipation for the photo prompt selected by our hostess-with-the-most-ess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  We then cudgel our brains a/o wait for the muse to strike us (hard), then craft our stories for the week with the best hundred words we can choose.  If you’d like read more stories, click on the little blue guy at the end of my story, sit back, and enjoy. Feel free to “like” and comment too. We writers love interaction with our readers. And if you’d like to join, the door’s always open.

 

copyright Sandra Cook

copyright Sandra Cook

Lavender Blue

Lavender perfumes the patio where we linger over déjeuner with local wine, basking in the sun, relishing food chosen at the village market.

Once children are gone, it’s time to move on.  We took “move” literally, leaving the town where we’d lived and had a child.  Choosing Provence had been easy, finding the house more difficult. This house attracted us with its quirky sculpture. It remains a now-bearable reminder of the tricycle David was riding when the drunk driver’s car jumped the curb, hitting him as he joyously wheeled along the sidewalk.

Lavender perfumes the urn tucked in the garden.

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Lavender Blue
(
Sharon, Lois and Bram)

 Lavender’s blue
Dilly dilly
Lavender’s green
If I were king
Dilly dilly
You’d be my queen

Who told you so
Dilly dilly
Who told you so
I told myself
Dilly dilly
I told me so

I may have inherited my love of horses from my dad because I don’t remember a time when I haven’t loved horses. I knew where all the horse books in our library were and I read them all. I think I learned to ride through reading those books, because I didn’t take any lessons, but I seemed to know how to ride instinctively.

I wanted nothing more than a horse. I wanted one enough to put up with, and enjoy, the occasional rides to no- much-of -on bored horses at a nearby stable, rides where the horse couldn’t be forced into a trot without massive amounts of kicking. I didn’t get a horse until much later but one day someone came by our house with a pony and my parents paid for my brother and me to have our pictures taken on it.  That is definitely a look of pure happiness!

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My chair, my woman cave, is surrounded by books, my full teacup, iPad, Kindle and other necessities such as my cell phone, in case someone actually calls.  I’m re-reading “Bella Tuscany” by Francis Mayes for the umpteenth time.  Yes, I’m one of those people who re-read books.  Most of the books I buy are books I’ve already read, books that I plan to keep, cherish and re-read many more times, whether in real book form (my favorite), Kindle (especially lovely for travel) or both.

This is the story of two books: one, part of a small series that I love; the other, part of a series I loved, then left. (more…)

A little humor to end your week and start the weekend. This is a postcard of my favorite tombstone in Boot Hill, the cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona, the town where Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Virgil and Morgan Earp faced the Clantons and the McLaurys in the gunfight at the OK Corral. (more…)

Visit. Read. Like. Click. Read more. Participate. Friday Fictioneers. Fun. Addictive. No known cure. Good luck.

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Informer

Cross-legged on the attic floor, contents of her grandmother’s chest spread around her, dust motes dappling the air, she gently opened a yellowed letter which had been roughly torn in half, then taped back together, folded around some pretty, but inexpensive jewelry.

The language was old-style German, the letters beautifully formed. She scanned it curiously, lessons from half-forgotten language classes returning, her brain registering just fragments.

“Ich habe Sie seit jahren gesucht,”*

“Ich war es, die Sie gespitzelt habe.”*

“Ich bete fuer ihren vergebung.”*

Her glance dropped to the signature.

The letter shook.

The ornately written name was her grandfather’s.

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*I have searched for you for years.
I was the informer.
I pray you can forgive me.