Archive for December, 2012

2012 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 11,000 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 18 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

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My Resolution

“So,” Mr.  Shelburn smirked, as he swayed by my desk, already overloaded with work that accumulated during the holiday. “What is your New Years Resolution?”

I forced myself to breathe in-slowly. I was seething inside.

“Sure,” he laughed, glancing down at the mass of papers that seemed to clutter my desk already.

“Hmm,” I sighed, looking up at his arrogant grin. “You want a resolution? “ I stacked the pile of papers, crumpled them into a  wad, then merrily tossed them into the trash can.

“My promise is to realize what is REALLY important in life, and do away with the rest.”

Suddenly, everyone smiled.

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The 2012 Blog of the Year Award

Thank you, Nuts for Treasure in keeping up the “Blog of the year” award-you certainly deserve your 6 stars. I thank Pat at  at http://patwoodblogging.wordpress.com/ at the Thought Pllette for sending this award to good ole Nuts for Treasure.

The ‘rules’ for this award are simple:

1 Select the blog(s) you think deserve the ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award

2 Write a blog post and tell us about the blog(s) you have chosen – there’s no minimum or maximum number of blogs required – and ‘present’ them with their award.

3 Please include a link back to this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award – http://thethoughtpalette.co.uk/our-awards/blog-of-the-year-2012-award/   and include these ‘rules’ in your post (please don’t alter the rules or the badges!)

4 Let the blog(s) you have chosen know that you have given them this award and share the ‘rules’ with them

5 You can now also join our Facebook group – click ‘like’ on this page ‘Blog of the Year 2012’ Award Facebook group and then you can share your blog with an even wider audience

6 As a winner of the award – please add a link back to the blog that presented you with the award – and then proudly display the award on your blog and sidebar … and start collecting stars…Blog of the Year Award banner 600

~

I have already messed this one up one, but will try one more time-have patience, fellow bloggers.   Nuts for treasure’s address is as follows, be sure and thank hehttp://nutsfortreasure.wordpress.com/2012/12/21/merry-christmas-its-award-time-lol-too-grab-your-star/

I will now do what I always have to do to publish and go ahead and push the publish button, come back and edit.  I have never figured out why I have to do this, but it usually works.

I would like to recommend the following bloggers who have recently started following me:

Head in my Hands

silentlyheardonce

I apologize to my readers, I am having trouble with my computer. Thank you all for your support.

 

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The Nostalgia of Wood

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Wood-the forts we made, with dad’s help among pines and poplars, the smoke arising from a campfire in autumn, holding a sleepy child in front of a fireplace, a tree in the forest, charred, but still alive.

A fallen tree makes me wonder how large the tree was when I was born,  if my grandpa climbed it, maybe planted it.  When I see wood, I realize that it may have been here before me and may be here long after me. In all of its’ fragility, wood seems to speak of endurance.  The lines within a log upon the ground, they speak of drought, or rainy years, they carry the voice of the creatures who lived when each log was a tree.

I see “my” crows standing in a snag above my house, waiting for me to put out scraps and then calling to their comrades. I see my grandpa hauling in logs for grandma’s woodstove. I stack railway ties to make a wall for my garden. I inhale the fragrance of new wood in a young house, waiting patiently for memories yet to come.

Wood is a diary, an album of our being. I touch it gently, reminded of all the meanings it holds.

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Not a Creature was Stirring

wreath

I threw the last of the packages down on the bed.  A few gift cards, last- minute ideas.
Oh, how I hate this season now. I always loved it-the glimmering lights, cooking, caroling, decorating, children’s smiles. Trees shimmering through the frost on the windows.  My kids looking for new gifts under the tree every few days.   My birthday only a few days away.

That was then and this is now. It is hard enough to see so many of the kids grown and gone, having their own celebrations, traditions. But taking my youngest to the cemetery to put flowers on his brothers grave…T’was the night before Christmas.

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Christmas Past

Albums from my shelf stare at me-
Don’t take them down, my heart screams.
My hand reaches up, my soul wanting to see
the sweet face of my baby, the glimmer of the tree.
Presents piled high-touching the limbs.
Pictures of lots of kids, lots of different trees.
The tears I knew would come, fall down my cheek,
In a quiet house, my oldest  ones all grown,
Families of their own, their houses now with those
glimmering trees, those piles of presents.
And my baby, the baby from those days, gone.
I visit his grave, decorate it like a table in the den.
I cry there, with his younger brother with me.
Not even born when those pictures were made.
I made the cookies, wrapped a few gifts, got cards.
I went on the church outing, held my tears, my breath.
Christmas, it was so wonderful, hope, peace, love.
I knew better than to believe it would last for me.
I need to get a new album, this one is falling apart.
Like my life did. Tears fall as I replace it on the shelf.

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Silouette

Photo copyright Scott L. Vannatter

I kept hearing that sound-a mix of a far away scream and the howling of wind through some strange rock formation. “What was it?” I wondered as I sat huddled by the campfire with my brother and his friend.

We were both frightened and intrigued. Should we take off into the forest with only the moonlight and a small lantern to guide us, or ignore it, crawl into our warm sleeping bags in the tent and forget it?

And then we saw her, silhouetted against the rock at the top of the mountain. Her mystery and beauty held us all captive.

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The Red Kettle Man

Walking towards the grocery store in the December wind, we heard the familiar bell of a Salvation Army Volunteer.
“What’s that sound?” asked my five-year old grandson.
“He’s called a volunteer.” My teenager replied. “He collects money for people who don’t have anything.”
My grandson looked up at me and asked, “Beebee, can we give them something?”

“Sure,” I said, reaching for some change.
He smiled as he listened to the coins jingling into the red kettle.
“God Bless you!” the older man said as we walked by.

“He already has.” replied my grandson.

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Memories of a Night’s Dim Light

creative writing prompt, fiction writing prompt, memoir writing prompt

The light flickered dimly on the dark, round table. She noticed the curve of the three legs, all sprouting from the tables underside. “What hand had carved these legs, “ she thought.  “What purposed did he have for the table when he carved it.”

She sat in the lone chair pushed up to the table and cupped her cold hands around the warmth of the flame.  It flickered, as if in protest, ands she moved her hands away just a bit, as the flame regained its strength.

Outside, the wind whistled in the night.  The quarter moon shone dimly in the window. There were no curtains to block the view of  the moon, a flash of stars, the outline of the Big Dipper.

For a moment, she sat quietly, contemplating her next move.  She had walked up the hill to the house her grandmother had been born in, searching for a place where her thoughts could flow freely and help her decided what to do.

She remembered the old radio she had brought here months before and walked to the shelf and turned it on. The radio hummed to life, a static in the background reminded her of the battery-powered radio she had listened to in bed at night as a child.

“The Geminid meteors will be visible tonight.” The radio announcer boldly spoke into the semi-darkness of the room.  She left the radio on, but returned to the table, remembering a long ago night when her father had come to her room, awakening her at 2 am.

“Come here, honey, I want to show you something.” he had whispered as he stroked her hair.  She had mumbled about being cold and sleepy as she slipped on her   and house coat and followed him outside.” Shivering, as he held her, she waited and waiting until she say a meteor streak by and then another.  That memory crept back into her mind as she lifted the candle and walked toward the door.

She sat the candle on the porch rail and walked into the field of dead December grass. Suddenly a brilliant streak of light flashed across the sky as a whip of wind made the candle’s flame shudder.

A smile crossed her face as another meteor appeared in the western sky. Her answer seemed so clear now, so obvious.  She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her to hold her sweater shut, reached over, gently picked up the candle and walked back inside.

The radio announcer was still humming out the news, but she wasn’t listening. She turned it off, blew out the candle and walked quietly out the door. As she walked back to the home she had lived in her whole life, she could see herself in that little house, reborn, renewed, refreshed. The light from the candle, the light in the sky , it was a sign. Yes, this would be her home.

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Everything Will be O.K.

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She was so tired, her eyes closed as she folded the clothes. Her hair was limp, unwashed, uncombed…
As she finally rested her head on the soft pillow, it felt like Heaven.
“Mommy”, a little voice rang out, “I don’t feel good.”
For a tiny second, she hoped she hadn’t heard his call. “No, not  now, I’m so tired.”, she thought.
Slowly, she pulled on her  , slipped her feet in the still warm slippers and scuffed as she walked into his room.
“What’s the matter, baby?” she sighed.
“My throat hurts.” He looked up with reddened eyes and sniffled.
His nose was running,, he wasn’t kidding.
“She went to get the thermometer and baby meds as she shook off the tiredness-again.”
“It’s ok, baby, momma’s here.” she smiled.
He smiled too, through rheumy eyes. Mommy was here, everything would be okay.

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