moo_marie

“Daddy! Daddy! Tell me a story!” Blonde pigtails flew behind her as she ran across the room and climbed into his lap.

“What sort of story would you like?” he replied smiling at her enthusiasm.

“Tell me about when you were little!” Her eyes lit up. She loved to hear stories about his childhood. Hers was so boring and his was so exciting.

“What do you want to know about?” He knew he didn’t really need to ask. He knew which story she would request and he mentally started organizing his thoughts to tell it yet again.

“Tell me about the wagon wheel.” She snuggled into his shoulder ready to hear her favorite story. It made him cry every time. That was part of the appeal. Big strong daddies didn’t cry every day.

“Okay. The wagon wheel it is. When I was a little boy, I was out playing with my brothers. I wasn’t very old. As a matter of fact, I was about your age. Somehow, I got the metal rim of a wagon wheel stuck around my head and I couldn’t get it off. One of my brothers ran and got Mom and Dad. They looked and were immediately scared. The only way they were going to get that wheel off was to use a heavy hammer and reshape the rim while it was on my head. One miss and I was dead. Mom held my head still while my dad reshaped the metal rim as quickly as he could and got it off my head.”

The tears were falling as he remembered that terrifying day. He had been sure he was going to die. But a brave mother and father trusted each other, worked together and saved their young son.

“Don’t cry, Daddy. You’re okay now. You’re safe.” She reached her arms around his neck and hugged him tight.

Smiling, he kissed the top of her head. Life was good.

________________________________________

She came home at the end of a long day and sat in her favorite chair. All she wanted to do was relax for just a few minutes.

“Mommy! Mommy! Tell me a story!” Blonde pigtails flew behind another little girl as she flew across the room and climbed on her mother’s lap.

The tired mother sighed and smiled, remembering doing the same thing to her father. “What sort of story would you like?” she replied basking in her daughter’s excitement.

“Tell me about when I was little!” Her eyes lit up. She loved babies and any story about a baby, especially herself, was sure to make her smile and giggle, just a little.

“What do you want to know about?” Mother asked, even though she didn’t need to. She was certain which story her little girl would request. It was her favorite. She started organizing her thoughts so she could tell it yet again.

“Tell me about WATERMELON!” Somehow when she said it, it was clear that word was all in capital letters. She loved watermelon even more than babies.

“Well, you’ve always loved watermelon, even when you were a baby. Your favorite outfit was a dress with a print that looked like watermelon rind around the bottom and had a pocket shaped like a slice of watermelon.” She paused, watching as her daughter licked her lips. “None of us really realized just how much you loved it until one day when your dad had been out at the grocery store with your grandmother. When they got home, you were sitting in your high chair right next to your grandfather. You dad took the watermelon they had bought and put it down in front of you. You started bouncing up and down in your chair and started to eat it then and there. Nobody could stop laughing and you got so mad when you couldn’t eat it.”

Mother smiled remembering the excitement of an enthusiastic toddler and her budding frustration when she didn’t get to eat her watermelon right now.

The young girl giggled. “I was so silly.” She wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck in a hug.

Her mother kissed the top her head. Life was good.

________________________________________

Later that night, mother lay in bed, thinking back across her life, and her day. There had always been stories. And there had always been someone to tell them. They hadn’t been about her very often, but that didn’t matter. They were still the story of her life.

There was a flamer named Brigit
Bridge it? Get it?
Digit?
Too mathematical.
Wait. Is there a Brigit? Hmmm….
In the land of brigits_flame
Better.
Game?
Name?
Aim?
Tame?
Fame?
Lame?
Oh, I hope not.
In the land of brigits_flame
People played a game
Well, that’s lame. Hey! That rhymed!
Community members played a game
Nah. That’s pushing the rhythm too much.
Members played a game
Meh.
Writers played a game
Closer.
Would-be writers played a game.
Let’s try that one.
In the land of brigits_flame
Would-be writers played a game.
Quixotic. Hmmm…
To wax quixotic
Yeah. I like that.
Erotic?
Exotic?
Philotic?
Luminotic?
Now that’s ridiculous.
In a form exotic
There. That’s better.
To acquire fortune and fame.
Is there fortune? Probably not, but one can always hope.
So, let’s try it all together.
In the land of brigits_flame
Would-be writers played a game.
To wax quixotic
In a form exotic
To acquire fortune and fame.
No. Not quite.
Was every entrant’s aim.
I think that’s it.

In the land of brigits_flame
Would-be writers played a game.
To wax quixotic
In a form exotic
Was every entrant’s aim.

The end.

Caroline squirmed a bit in her seat as the taxi cruised down the dimly lit streets on the outskirts of town. It seemed like it had been an eternity since the last time she was here. It was part of another life. Since then she had earned her masters degree in library science, found a job cataloguing at a suburban library in a huge metropolitan area, made new friends, and carved out a life for herself. She was truly happy. Or at least that was what she told herself.

“Travelin’ here on business, Miss?” the burly taxi driver asked. He had picked up on her desire for quiet, but the hour was getting late, and he was looking for a way to keep alert. It was an innocuous question, but she found herself hesitating before she answered.

“I’m here to visit an old friend.” I hope she added silently. She’d meant to come back so many times, but there always seemed to be a reason not to make the trip. It was finals week. She was looking for a job. She was just getting settled. The weather forecast implied the airport might be closed. It was too close to the holidays and she didn’t want to impose. There seemed to be no end to the excuses. “We haven’t seen each other in years.”

“It’s good to stay in contact with old friends,” observed the weary man. “It helps keep us grounded and remember where we came from. Are you from around here?” He glanced at her in the rear view mirror, quickly reassessing his initial reaction. Maybe she wasn’t all prissy and citified after all.

“I grew up not far from here,” she answered quietly. “But things have sure changed since I was last here,” she added, almost as an afterthought. The trees were all there, but they seemed taller. Several of the houses now had aluminum siding. She only recognized a few of the neighborhood cars. She abruptly realized she certainly wouldn’t know any of the neighborhood children. She wasn’t even certain she would recognize him.

“Ayup. That’s for sure. There’s always somethin’ changin’. Just last month the city council wanted everyone in town to hook up to the sewers. Darn politicians.”

Caroline winced.

“Pardon the language Ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right. I can certainly understand.” She smiled just a little. How could she tell this friendly teddy bear of a taxi driver that it wasn’t his language that had caused her reaction? He had quoted Gerald almost word for word. Gerald had written to her every single week, even when she hadn’t responded for weeks or even months at a time. He had always made sure she was kept up on the current events in town, even when she didn’t much care anymore. She’d actually known about the sewers. And the big box store that had opened on the other end of town. And the bear that had wandered into town looking for food late last fall. She knew all of it. And every letter ended with the now-familiar postscript. “Please come see me soon. I’ll leave a candle burning for you.”

The driver just nodded and once again left her to her thoughts.

She wondered for perhaps the thousandth time if Gerald really meant it as an invitation. It had become just a predictable part of every letter. If he used email, it would have just been part of his signature block. “I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it,” she whispered to herself.

She wasn’t even sure why she was here. She had only responded to his letters irregularly, especially when she was dating some new guy. And in the big city, there seemed to be lots of those. But lately, even when she was dating someone, she found herself thinking of Gerald more and more often. He’d always been the one thing in her life that would never change. When she struggled and lost her way, he was always there guiding her back to a safe place. When she needed encouragement he was always there, leading her on and pointing her in the right direction. But that was part of her fear, too. What if, when she saw him, he had changed? What if he wasn’t the guiding light she’d made him into in her mind? What if he was just an ordinary guy? And worse yet, what if he’d tired of waiting for her and found someone else?

Sensing her growing agitation, the driver pointed. “It’s right around that bend.”

Caroline took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, though she’d already known. Gerald had bought the old abandoned house at the end of the street where they’d grown up. When they were little, they’d snuck candles and matches out of their houses and played by candlelight, long after they were supposed to be in for the night. As they got older, if one of them was out on a date, the other would light a candle at the old house letting them know they had an escape and a shoulder to cry on if things went badly. That had been their own private message system. Candles. “Please come see me soon. I’ll leave a candle burning for you.” His own way of saying she was always welcome. Or just a habit. Either way, she’d know soon, because he didn’t even know she was coming. She’d just come home at lunch one day, packed, and driven to the airport. One more deep breath.

As the taxi rounded the curve she gasped in astonishment. Lining the quarter mile lane to the old house were dozens, perhaps even hundreds of candles, shielded from the elements by brightly painted cans. “What … are … those?” she breathed.

“Luminaries, I think folks call ‘em. Started showin’ up at holidays around these parts a few years ago. But this here fella’ keeps his up year round. He’s got a set for every occasion.”

Suddenly she knew. He really was waiting, whether he knew she was coming or not. She smiled again, and this time it was real.

Okay. So I've started a blog. Climbed on the bandwagon and all that. Of course, now the problem is figuring out if I have anything of note to say. I'm not funny, so that approach is out. I'm not sure I'm fanatical about anything, so that may be out. I'm not here to write erotica, so that's right out. I guess I'll just be one of those bloggers who rambles until I find my voice. Until then, I'm browsing blogs with interests that catch my eye. Hopefully that'll help some.