Family stories – Continued

Now for my mom’s side of the family:
My mother’s mother, Clara Mathilde Morrell, “Tillie” was born and raised in Sweden. In 1891, when she was 11 years old, she came to Portland, Oregon to be an Au Pair girl for her stepsister. She finished her schooling there and the first English words she learned were taught her by her brother-in-law; “Open de door.” She stayed in Portland, working as a nanny until the age of 19, when she traveled back to Sweden to visit her family.
When she returned to America, she went to Cambridge, Minnesota to stay with relatives. I don’t know how long she stayed there, but eventually, she traveled to Lyons, Nebraska to visit her cousins.
My grandfather, Andrew (A.G.) Anderson, came to this country from Sweden in the 1870s. They farmed north of Lyons, Nebraska and he was the youngest of 9 (I think) brothers and sisters. One brother had died in Sweden. Grandpa was about 8 years old when, in January, the Blizzard of 1888 swept across this continent. It became known as the “Schoolchildren’s Blizzard” because of the sudden onset of the storm, the ferocity of it, and the time of day it hit. Many school aged children were on their way home, or stranded at school and many, sadly, perished. Grandpa was in school and if I remember right, he either stayed at school or made it to a friend’s home to wait it out. His parents had no idea where he was during that whole time, but just “trusted God to keep him safe.”
A.G. was one of the cousins Tillie came to visit and Lillie Breuer, who was there when it happened, says when they met each other, it was “love at first sight.” (Yes, they were cousins, but at that time, it was not that unusual or unseemly for cousins to marry. And all four of their children were completely normal. No albinos or anything like that.) Grandma said that the moment she walked into their house, she felt like she had come home.
They were married in 1904 and my mom, Rachel Marguerite, their youngest, was born in 1918. Mom never learned to speak Swedish as her folks never spoke it in their home, although traces of it are in our family dialect. Mom always said “Ja” for yes, tho she wouldn’t have considered it speaking Swedish. She learned to count to 10 and I remember very clearly, she and Grandma both said “oj, oj, oj” (pronounced ‘oy’) instead of the more American “uh oh,” whenever they were disgusted or dismayed with something (usually something naughty I was saying or doing). I still say, “Ja” for yes, usually without thinking about it and didn’t even notice it until someone pointed it out to me.
I never knew Grandpa, except through pictures and stories as he died a few years before I was born. They farmed a couple miles north of Lyons, in the Jefferson neighborhood, and raised two daughters and two sons and then retired to a home in town.
Grandma was a very devoted Christian and said Grandpa was, too. She had her share of troubles, including a couple of nervous breakdowns, which put her in a hospital. In 1926 they took a road trip with Grandpa’s brother, Sherman, driving in a Model T to California and back. It took them six weeks.
She was one of the founders of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid, a neighborhood group of women who met monthly for I don’t know how long – probably a century or more before they ran out of women. I like to think of them the as original MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) group. The group was a source of friendship and moral support for all the homemakers in the neighborhood. One of the ladies, Bertha Pearson once shared this memory about the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid: Shortly after Bertha’s son, Duane, was born, she got herself ready and probably baked a batch of brownies or cookies to contribute to the lunch and set out with the horse and buggy to attend a meeting at Grandma’s. Grandma met her at the door, with a very surprised look on her face and said, “Bertha, where is the baby?!” It was only then Bertha realized she had left Duane at home, so she drove home in a panic and found him sleeping peacefully right where she had left him.
My mom was a member of the Jefferson Ladies’ Aid when she was raising her family and I remember going to meetings with her and Grandma when I was a little girl. The names of the families some back to me through a fog of time and distance: Krogers, Pearsons, Johnsons, Inager and LOTS of Andersons. The smell of coffee, minced ham sandwiches and chocolate cake can take me right back to a Jefferson neighborhood kitchen. They usually had a Bible Study or a devotional reading, probably a homemaking lesson of some kind and then they sang, my mom played piano for them. I still have some of the songbooks they used.
In her late years, Grandma suffered from ulcerated varicose veins in her legs. She was undergoing an amputation in 1962 and died on the operating table. It broke my mother’s heart because Grandma had asked her to “please don’t let them take my legs.” But the decision was left to Mom (her surviving siblings lived in Colorado and California at the time) and I know she felt it would be for the best. And anyway, it was only Grandma’s body that died – her spirit lives on with her Saviour.
Well, I see that this posting has gone completely out of control, so I’ll stop here and TRY to get on to the next generation next time.

Movie Review

I have a new favorite movie.
Amazing Grace, starring Ioan Gruffudd, is the story of Great Britain’s MP (Member of Parliament) William Wilberforce, whose passionate persistence ended the slave trade in Great Britain in 1807. The movie chronicles his efforts as an abolitionist, which began in 1789. The amazing thing about Amazing Grace is that this movie depicts committed, repentant Christians as something other than wild-eyed, witch-burning fanatics. William Wilberforce followed God’s call on his life to use his position as MP to promote social reforms. And he did it all with – yes, AMAZING Grace. The movie touches briefly on Wilberforce’s other pursuits, including his involvement with the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, presenting an accurate portrait of a man who was willing to speak for those who could not speak for themselves. (Although not included in the movie – you can’t cover EVERYTHING in two hours - Wilberforce also was instrumental in opening India to Christian Missionaries, helped found the British and Foreign Bible Society, and worked for the relief of boy chimney sweeps. He wrote a book challenging people to re-examine their Christian faith and give it its proper place in their lives.)
This is one of the most inspiring works to come out of Hollywood since The Ten Commandments – the old one with Charleton Heston. If I may digress, (and of course, I may – this is my blog) I had high hopes for End of the Spear, which was a movie about Jim Eliot, Ed McCully, Roger Youderian, Peter Fleming and Nate Saint, missionaries who were martyred trying to take the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the Auca people of Ecuador. While the story seemed accurate, they managed to tell it all without once mentioning the name of Jesus.
Amazing Grace also offers viewers an honest introduction to other Christian men, such as Thomas Clarkson, who followed “a direct revelation from God ordering me to devote my life to abolishing the trade.” (Quote not in the movie, but in a historical document). He worked for abolition and emancipation throughout his life. We also meet John Newton, the ex-slaveship captain who wrote the beloved Hymn “Amazing Grace.” Newton was a force of encouragement to Wilberforce throughout his 18 year campaign to end the British slave trade.
Albert Finney as Newton speaks the words that are at the heart of Christian belief and in the heart of every Christian; “I am certain of two things: that I am a great sinner and Jesus Christ is a Great Savior.”
I highly recommend this movie.

Family Stories

Inspired by LaDawn at http://Clare-panton.blogspot.com

I love my great Grandpa Joel Gatewood. I’ve never met him; he died 36 years before I was born, but he lives on in the stories that come to me like gifts from those who did know him.

The most famous family legend about him is that he fought for the North during the Great War of the Rebellion (American Civil War). Great Grandpa Joel was born in Illinois. After the War, he married Great Grandma Almina (Zorn) and found his way to Decatur, Nebraska some time around 1870, where he lived and worked for the rest of his life. He farmed for awhile; had a stallion named Pruitt that I assume he bred for stud fees and he piloted the Decatur Ferry across the Missouri River for many years.

One day, he went into town and got his hair cut and his long, white beard shaved off. He went home, knocked on the front door and asked if the lady of the house had any work she could hire him to do. She replied that no, she didn’t. He thanked her politely and turned to leave. As he strode away, no doubt chuckling to himself, Great Grandma recognized his gait, realized who he was and yelled to him. “I don’t like you that way! Let it grow back!” I’ve never seen a photo of him without his beard.

Joel and Almina had 11 children, among them my Grandpa; TW Gatewood. Grandpa married Agnes Connealy in 1904 and they settled down to farm near Decatur, raising registered Duroc breeding stock hogs. They had five children, one died in infancy. My Dad, John Eddie was born to them in 1912. My Aunt Grace tells me that they held a hog auction twice a year and Grandma would fix a big noon meal for the family and the auctioneers. After dinner, they brought out their guitars, fiddles and whatever other portable instrument they had and sang for a few hours. Aunt Grace hated to go to school on those days because she knew she’d miss out on the singing.

The family lost everything in a house fire, I think in the 1930s? They lived the remainder of that winter in the chicken house. In the 40s, Grandpa went to work as a Thoroughbred race horse trainer. One of the women he worked for gave him a horse named Merry Bid and said, “If he ever wins anything, you can give me $100.00.” Well, Merry Bid did indeed win, more than once and that was the start of his stables. Grandpa & Grandma traveled the racing circuit with their horses and when they got to the next event, Grandma cleaned out the back of the stock truck and that’s where they lived until it was time to move again. They traveled to Florida, Chicago, Phoenix, Denver, South Sioux City, NE, St. Joseph, Missouri, Columbus, NE and Grandpa is listed among the founders of the Aksarben race track (now gone) in Omaha. My older brothers and cousins traveled with them as grooms, but I was born too late to get in on that privilege. I would have LOVED it. Dad trained for him for awhile and some of my favorite childhood memories are of visits to the race track to watch Grandpa’s horses run. Grandma tried to teach me how to pick a winner by reading a racing form, and I remember asking her a question that just about made her bust a gut laughing. I don’t remember what I asked her, but that was the end of my racing form lessons.

In the late 1960s, Grandpa was nearly killed by a horse in an accident – he got a rope wrapped around his hand was dragged, breaking his pelvis. He was given Last Rites by a Priest at the hospital in St. Joe, but fortunately for all of us, he recovered. He was a very faithful Catholic after that incident and attended Mass and Confession whenever he could. He remained faithful to his love for horses and horseracing, but he and Grandma eventually gave up the vagabond lifestyle and settled into an apartment in Lyons, NE. One day, in 1971, he got up around 4 AM to get ready to go to the Columbus races. Grandma heard him fall in bathroom, where he died suddenly of a heart attack. Mom went over there as soon as Grandma called and saw Grandpa where he’d fallen. She said he was lying on his side with his hand under his head, with a very peaceful look on his face.

I’ll stop here with my family stories for now. I’ll move on to the following generations next time.

My Famous Barn: Part II

There is a new version of the Roberts Dairy Commercial circulating. (See the Jauary 18, 2007 post if you need more details).
This time, the actress appears with two children and she says to the cow, “You make us feel so PEPPY!” Again, at the end, (after she asks the cow for an autograph) you get a lovely shot of the landscape behind the cow, which features my wonderful barn along with the rest of our place.
With all this attention, I feel almost obligated to buy Robert’s Dairy products instead of the cheaper store brands.

Here is a literary contribution from my daughter, Emily. The assignment was to “make a ‘to-do’ list’.

School Daze

To Do: Find the least-dirty pair of jeans in the hamper and run them twenty minutes in the dryer to give them a semblance of freshness. Do the same, if necessary, for a T-shirt. Check off everything needed for the day and check at least three times, an exercise in futility since there will be a crucial item missing at the most inopportune time. Start the car five minutes prior to departure to give it time to warm up. Use profane and abusive language when it dies anyway.

Drive 45 miles and arrive at parking lot; drive around looking for a space. Wonder if the drivers of compact sports cars who double-park will make it into heaven. Settle for the spot furthest from the exit. Board the shuttle bus and try to ignore the couple occupying one seat, joined at the lip.

Dig around for student ID at the HPER (Health Physical Education and Recreation) Building. Find it in the last pocket searched and enter. Ignore the sign in the restroom saying “This is not a dressing room” and change into workout clothes in there anyway. Begin workout. Fifteen minutes in, begin worrying about the possibility of a healthy twenty-two year old woman dropping dead of a heart attack, however remote it may seem. Sweat profusely.

After workout, change back into street clothes. Finish essay. Print out copy and check for spelling errors that have to be there, no matter what Microsoft Word is saying. Realize that the entire document is crap from start to finish and begin debating whether to write a “mercy e-mail” to the instructor, pleading sickness, emergency or just plain stupidity to get more time to write it better. Curse a basically honest nature and turn it in as is anyway.

Eat something in the convenience store: popcorn, Soup At Hand, a Nestle Crunch, an Adrenaline Rush and spend the next half hour trying to convince your stomach that it’s had supper. Fail miserably and chew gum.

Try to stay awake in class. Attempt to contribute to the discussion and pay attention when the instructor’s mouth is moving: intelligent, important words might be coming out. Fail miserably and spend the next hour texting your friend you never see anymore but makes you laugh harder at nothing than anybody else can.

Make discovery in the women’s bathroom that your hair is an unholy greasy mess. Comb through it with fingers and curse the shortsightedness that led to the abandonment of your hairbrush in favor of a lighter purse.

RUN across campus in an attempt to be on time for the next class. Do a last skim through of the assigned reading and try to ignore the rumblings from your stomach. Try not to wonder if the instructor will fail you for what you just wrote. Fail miserably. Go buy M & M’s from the vending machine; it’s been a long day and everyone knows that calories from comfort food don’t count.

Drive 45 miles home in the snow. Sing along with the radio to stay awake, pinch yourself, chew more gum, and when all else fails, turn off the heat and open a window, because this is one time miserable failure isn’t an option. Make it home and try to be quiet upon entry. Peel the contacts off your eyes. Change into forgiving pajamas with long sleeves and a blessedly loose waist. Lay awake for an hour, trying to figure out how you could’ve done better. Make promises to do better tomorrow.

Sleep. Dream; no list required.

Todays' weather
It was just too extreme to leave a single comment on the side of the page.
When I stepped out into the predawn darkness this morning to do my chores, I was immediately made aware that I was significantly underdressed! The air temp was at 3 degrees F - the single digits I'm getting used to - but the winds were howling in from the north at around 30 mph. My goodness. It was one of those mornings that makes it hard to have a conversation because your lips and cheeks feel stiff and the wind drowns out your voice. You don't dare blink because your eyes have begun to water and they might freeze shut, so you just let the tears freeze to your cheek.
However, the barn - my famous barn - proved to be a cozy haven of warmth. I was greeted by the grateful nicker of my Bubba - who is always glad to see me at feeding time and even Lucy, my two year old who doesn't have much to say, gave me a little whinny of welcome.
Everyone should have a horse; they never expect more from you than you can give; they never chide you for being late or complain about the weather (like I just did). They carry you around no matter how badly you've gone off your diet and the most soothing sound on the planet is the nicker of welcome when they see you coming.
Because that nicker is reserved only for you.
They don't talk to just anyone, only to the person they have claimed as their own.

What’s up with that?

In an attempt to help them pursue their higher education goals without acquiring massive amounts of debt, my husband and I share our home with our two college student children, ages 22 and 24. Between us, we have seven full or part time jobs and four vehicles. (Five if you count the horse trailor.) The kids bounce back and forth between their jobs, classes and home like those little steel marbles in a pinball machine. The four of us rarely eat together. We don’t leave or arrive at home at the same time on any given weekday and everyone rises and retires at different hours of the day and night. On Sundays, we attend church services at two different hours.
So would someone please explain to me why it is, without fail, no fewer than two people need the bathroom at the same time!?
My youngest has been potty trained for 20 years now and we have never lived in a house that had more than one bathroom, so wouldn’t you think we would have mastered the technique of sharing it by now?
Here’s a typical scenario; it’s mid to late evening on an average weekday. The bathroom sits silently, just off the southeast corner of the kitchen. It has been unoccupied for the past eight hours. One person is working on the computer; another is at the kitchen table working a Sudoku puzzle, a third is in the living room watching TV; a fourth (me) is washing dishes. At some mysterious cue, that only contentious people can hear, one set of footsteps crosses the kitchen toward the bathroom door, someone else looks up from whatever they were doing and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there? I really need to go.”
The first party retorts, “I was here first, you’ll just have to wait your turn.” This is followed by the door slamming.
The one who is left waiting says, “For crying out loud, you always take forever!” and then begins to pace angrily.
“I was just getting ready to go in there,” says the one looking up from his puzzle. He abandons the Sudoku and sits with arms and legs crossed, scowling at the closed door. After a few minutes, he looks at the clock and begins to mutter curses and threats.
I stare into the wall in front of the sink and try not let anyone hear the water running as I continue my dishwashing.
Not soon enough, the sounds of flushing and hand washing filters through the closed door. The waiting person stomps to the closed door, pounds on it and shouts, “Hurry up! I’m in pain here! How long does it take one person to dry her hands?”
Much to everyone’s relief, the door finally opens and the party of the first part strolls out nonchalantly, pretending to be unaware of the weeping and gnashing of teeth she has caused by her visit to the bathroom.
This is followed by, “It’s about time!”
The third one leaps up and shouts, “WAIT! Can I use it before you get in there?”
This is followed by the door slamming again.
Maybe we should just let them go into debt….

It was all LaDawn's idea...

What’s in a name? It’s not hard to tell,
When you think of the people you know so well.
And for those you don’t know, you can make a good guess
From the nickname they have or their email address.

The last name of Smith gets converted to Smitty
Their first names are dropped and I say, “What a pity.”
How to tell them apart for the rest of their lives?
We usually can tell from the names of their wives:

There’s Aunt Grace’s Smitty and Smitty & Jo,
How many Smittys can one person know!?
We have Smitty & Patti and Smitty & Jane,
But our favorite Smitty belongs to Elaine.

Some nicknames are given by fancy or whim,
On the spur of the moment we call her or him
By a name that recalls a moment in life,
And it sticks forever, like cheese on a knife.

If someone falls down or bumps into a wall,
He becomes “Klutz” forever, and that’s not all;
I once knew Rochelle, everyone called her “Tootie”
Her dad named her that, he thought her a cutie.

There’s Snarfy and Plum and The Big Galloot,
Jackieboy, Feather and Tuffie and Snood.
And after a pal of mine had a masectomy,
Her husband insisted on calling her “Lefty.”

We can’t chose our nicknames; that never would do,
But we do pick the one that we use on Yahoo!
All lower case, no comma or space,
Just the requisite “dot” in its proper place.

Our user I.D. can be quite revealing,
Of the things that we treasure and find appealing.
Like cdroses and whiskeymick,
The quiltingcowgirl or themaindrumstick.

I know chuckle2 and singintherain,
Browneyedpete and justplainjane.
You can guess the pielady’s expertise,
Or what wanttofish does to take ease.

Numbers jump in every now and again
As in danfred4 and singlemom10;
Or jmrogers57
Doggie2 and bluemoon11.

To hear from OldFox is always treat,
And barkingmadmoggie is really so sweet.
But some of those spammers make me want to holler
Like herbal*viagra and shopping$$fordollars.

So what’s in a name? A lot, it would seem:
Some moments past, or our future dreams
Wrapped up in the names that we like to be called;
What’s in a name’s worth way more than gold.

Thoughts for Barbaro

I cried yesterday when I heard the news that Barbaro, the injured winner of the 2006 Kentucky Derby had to be put down due to laminitis. What a great loss for Thoroughbred horse racing. As I’m sure it’s true with all horse owners who have faced the same heart wrenching decision for their own faithful companions, it reminded me of times I have been involved in such a situation.
February 2, 2000 was a jewel of a day: rare and precious with unseasonable warmth and sunshine. I went to my barn to do my usual morning chores and found my 17 year old mare, Jazz, was down – on her side unable to get up. She’d been losing weight the past few weeks, but her eyes were bright and clear, her wooly coat was shiny and she was still eating, as usual. I’d taken her out for a ride about ten days ago and her energy level seemed undiminished so I mistakenly blamed her weight loss on the winter conditions and assumed she’d bounce back in the spring.
I called my trusted vet and he came as quickly as he could and treated her. He had to leave for another call, but promised to come back later, hoping to find she had responded and would be on her feet by then. She managed to struggle up off her side and get her legs under her, which gave us both hope. While he was gone, I sat with my girl, talked to her, pulled on her halter and tried to get her up. It wasn’t long before she gave me a look that said, “I’m just too tired,” and then flopped back down onto her side again. Her eyes dulled over with pain and her sprawled out legs began to “pedal” at the air. When the vet returned, I knew it was time to do the right thing. I knelt behind her, took her sweet head into my lap, looked her in the eye and said, “You are a good horse. Thank you for everything you’ve taught me. I’m sorry I was such a slow learner. God bless you. I’ll see you again someday.” The vet gave her the shot and while I watched, for a brief instant, the pain left her eye and then I sobbed as I watched the life go out of her, quickly and mercifully.
January 17, 2005 was a typical Midwestern winter day. A wild prairie wind was stirring up the frigid, below 0 F air all around us as we stood at the open end of a trailor around Morgan the Morgan, encouraging him to lift his stiff, arthritic front legs one last time to get into a trailor. When he walked, the pain was so great he was only willing to move his feet a few inches at a time, shuffling and limping along. Grazing had become a painful ordeal for him. While Janet and Chuck pulled and clucked to Morgan from the front, his vet and I grasped arms behind his rump and heaved, leaving him little choice but to bend his swollen knees and get in, which he finally did with a grunt and a sigh. Morgan stood patiently between Chuck and Janet as they looked at each other. Tears filled both their eyes they silently wished the other would volunteer to hold the lead rope. I stepped into the trailor and said, “I’ll hold him.” Relieved, they took refuge in the barn, hoping to get away from the wind and the sorrow. I spoke quietly to Morgan while the vet gave him the shot, told him he was loved deeply and that he would be missed more then anything. His head drooped, his legs wobbled a little and then he went down. When his two pasture mates, a pair of Palomino mares, heard the thundering crash his 1500 pound body made as it hit the floor of the trailor, they cried out. Their whinnying broke my heart, but Morgan’s pain was ended.
I know that the end must have been much the same for the great Barbaro. I don’t doubt for a moment that he was surrounded by people who loved him and respected him. I know they were the people he trusted to take care of him and to make the best decisions for him. And no matter how difficult it might become, they were the ones who had to do the right thing by him. I’m sure someone looked him in the eye at the very end and told him how much he was loved and how greatly he would be missed. And when they saw the pain leave his eye and the life go out of him, I hope they felt the compassion and sympathy of everyone who has ever had to watch a similar flame go out.
See you later, Barbaro. Say hi to Jazz and Morgan for me.

My Famous Barn
My barn and house are appearing on national American television in a new Robert’s Dairy commercial. The commercial opens with a woman smiling passionately and talking. They make us think she is accepting a marriage proposal when she says, “I choose you!” and then they pull back and we see that she is talking to a Holstein. At the very end of the commercial, you are treated to a pastoral scene of cows grazing in a pasture with a big red barn, a white farmhouse, and an assortment of outbuildings in the background.
That’s where I live. My sewing room is in the red building to the right of the house. My two horses are hidden in the barn. They weren’t allowed to be out during the filming.
Only cows. Actually only one cow. She is a 4-H cow borrowed from a neighbor and hauled in for the event.
Filming took place on a sunny day last fall. The crew that came to do the filming started pulling in about 7:30 AM – several trucks full of equipment that looked like it came from the USS Enterprise (Beam me up, Scotty!) and a catering vehicle. As I left for work, I drove past a shaded table laden with fruits, cheese, deli meats and bottles and bottles of purified water and sodas. All the exciting stuff must have happened while I was at work. They started to wrap up and leave around 5:30 PM with the last one pulling out around 7:30 that evening. I’ve often wondered where they went to the bathroom during that day. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know. There’s no evidence of it visible in the commercial. Even the cow stays tidy on camera.

The place is now blanketed in snow and the cow has long since gone home, but my gorgeous horses are still there. If I can figure out how to do it, I’ll post some pictures of them here.
For now, American TV watchers will have to be content to see the cute actress and the pretty Holstein.

One Square Mile
This is getting depressing.
I am a 51 year old woman.
One day, at the grocery store, they gave me the senior citizen’s discount.
Okay, so I look old. I knew it was coming.
I have a mirror and I’m not blind to the grey hairs and wrinkles.
A few days later, the lady at the deli called me “sir.”
So now I think must look like an old man.
Then, just last week, a sample lady rushed over to me and handed me a Slim-Fast bar.
So I look like a fat old man.
So I went on a diet. (I’ll keep you posted).
I go out of my way to put delicate rings on my fingers and precious looking dangly earrings on my lobes.
And I’m growing out my hair and looking at mags to find a soft, curly style that my thin, graying hair can support.
My best friend, who is a cosmetologist, is going to show me how to do makeup.
I hate makeup – it makes my eyes itch and my face feel greasy and it leaves weird looking stains on the neckline of my shirts.
What’s the alternative?
Continue to go around looking like a fat old man.

On October 8, I got bucked off my horse and broke both bones in my wrist. I ended up in a cast for six weeks. Jack wrote this Villanelle:

A Broken Mother by Jack Carson (Copyright 2006 Jack Carson)

My mother broke her arm;
It did not make her glad,
Because it caused her harm.

My dad felt much alarm
And it was very bad
When my mother broke her arm.

She almost bought the farm
And it made her sad
Because it caused her harm.

The bones that were so firm
Snapped like pencils of lead
When she broker her arm.

It must have been bad karm-
a, having made some cosmic force mad,
And so my mother was harmed.

There really is no charm
When you must depend on Dad.
When your mother breaks her arm
All are harmed.

A Sestina by Jack Carson
Note: a sestina is a strict poetic form composed of six stanzas of six lines each. Notice how six words are repeated to end each of the six lines in the stanza. Jack’s words are: sandwich, tail, enjoy, picnic, armadillo, and book. (It’s a little distorted because this blog has an automatic text wrap feature that breaks up the lines).The final stanza is always three lines. I love this sestina. If Maurice Sendak is still out there somewhere, I think he should illustrate it.
Janell

The Epic of the Cat, the Hare, the Gecko and the Armadillo (Copyright 2006 jack Carson)

Once there was a Cat, a hare, a Gecko, and an Armadillo.
One day, they gathered for a picnic.
They had lots of sandwiches.
There was roast beef and ham and peanut butter and they all enjoyed
them. Then they read to each other from a book.
All was going well until Cat stepped on Gecko’s tail.

Since he was a gecko, Gecko’s tail
Broke off and this caused Armadillo
to panic and curl himself up into a ball. He didn’t realize he was on the book.
Gecko said to Cat, “You’re spoiling our picnic.”
Hare said to Armadillo, “Get off the book so we may all enjoy
it.” Cat decided he wanted another sandwich.

And that’s when they all realized (except for Armadillo); There were no more sandwiches.
Gecko went to retrieve his missing tail
While Cat and Hare, lamented that there were no more sandwiches for them to enjoy.
And Armadillo,
Still curled up in a ball, was unaware that the picnic
was almost over. And Hare still wanted the book.

He pulled on the book,
And heard Armadillo ask for another sandwich.
Hare told him he couldn’t have another sandwich because the picnic
was over. Trying to uncurl him, Cat pulled on Armadillo’s tail
Causing a yell to come from Armadillo.
Uncurling himself, Armadillo said, “I did not find that enjoyable.”

And Hare said, “No one can enjoy
anything when people are sitting on books
and scaring armadillos
and eating all the sandwiches
and getting their tails
stepped on. And now it’s over for our picnic!”

“This can’t really be the end of the picnic!”
said Cat tearfully. “I was just getting to enjoy
myself.” And then Gecko returned with his tail.
It was still thrashing, as geckos’ tails do when they are cut. He picked up the book
And said, “I know where there are more sandwiches.”
Let’s go!” said the others. (except for Armadillo)

He was still thinking of the lost picnic and the book
That they’d hardly had the chance to enjoy. He was still hoping he could have a sandwich,
Not realizing his friends had turned their tails toward him to look for more. Alone was Armadillo.

Another poem by Janell:

“Lost Head Start”
In the darkness of the morning when the moon is sinking low
And over in the eastern sky the sun has yet to glow,
The dewy fresh of nighttime rest is hanging in the air
It’s a moment brief and precious sans the world and all its care.

With the stars and planets twinkling close enough, it seems, to touch
You think “This day is one in which I can accomplish much.”
You think you might just get things done, and do them right, not wrong.
Or get around to starting stuff you’ve put off way too long.
And so you start to make a list of stuff inside your head
Stuff you’d like to get around to someday soon – before you’re dead.

And then the eastern sky begins to give a faint pink glow
And you hear a truckers engine whine on the blacktop way below
The waking of the world sets off a pang inside your heart
It makes you want to quit because you’ve lost your great head start.

A poem by Janell - this one came to me several years ago as I was watching my mother lose her memories one by one to Alzheimers.
“Dementia”
It’s getting awfully quiet all alone inside my mind.
The most elusive penny for the thought I cannot find.
Exaggeration, trepidation, trembling painful stand
The one and only fragment of my heart lies in my hand.
Dodging bullets, chasing demons, crawling ‘neath the line of fire
Reaching out for missing angels, watch them burn upon the pyre.
Is that why it’s so quiet here, where stories used to flow?
Did the demons steal my angels? Where’d all my good stuff go?
I’ve chased away the burning shame, I’ve finally won the fight.
A pile of ash is that’s left, there is no other light.

Sometimes the Dragon Wins #1
By Jack Carson.

There’s a story out there, no one really knows who told it first, but it’s been around for long time. Anyway, it goes a little like this. There’s this village, a quaint little anywhere place, that just so happens to be in the vicinity of a ferocious dragon. As you can imagine, being terrorized by a dragon on a regular basis is not very pleasant.
So along comes this knight. Resplendent in his armor, astride his white stallion, his sword sharp, his lance long, his head empty. Anyway, this knight goes to slay the dragon. Cinch, right? Well, the knight doesn’t return for about a week, and finally the villagers send somebody to see if he’s completed his task. All this guy finds are the bones of his horse and a fused lump of melted metal, with all that’s left of the knight rattling around inside as crumbled bits of charcoal.
The guy goes back to the village and all he has to say is, “Sometimes the Dragon Wins.”

Sometimes the Dragon Wins #2

“Well,” said Azzear, “This is it.”
“This is where is all happens?” asked Tom.
“Not very big, is it?” joked Azzear.
The place of which they spoke was, in fact, very big. It had to be, because of its purpose. The desert complex sprawled for ten miles in any given direction. Its granite walls were as high as some mountains. The place itself was a marvel of engineering, but what lay inside was still more exciting. Tom still couldn’t believe it. This was where Azzear worked, training dinosaurs for the army.
“Alright, listen up, cousin,” said Azzear, “It’s going to take them a minute to get the gates open so I’ll use this time to explain a few things. This place is the size of a city, so as such it’s easy to get lost in there. Stay with me, but if we do get separated, there are maps available at the entrance and they’re posted at every doorway. That’s another thing, most places inside there have only one or two entrances. That means the complex is more defensible, plus any of the big dinos are less likely to find their own way outside. Can’t risk letting them get out, even in the middle of the desert. It also means you’re going to do a lot of walking. And one more thing: It is impossible for me to overemphasize safety in there. So don’t do anything that seems even a little unsafe.”
“Okay,” said Tom.
The two of them waited as the ancient, wrought-iron gates creaked and groaned, sliding open enough to let them through. The gates had a unique design, they slid side to side, rather than outward or inward. That meant an enemy had to batter them down completely, as opposed to smashing them open. As they rode through, Tom could see why it took them so long to open the gates.
A massive brachiosaurus was harnessed to a series of mechanisms that worked the gate. Tom watched as the gate was closed, the brachio’s muscle rippling as it strained to pull them shut.
“We’re in the South quadrant right now. This is where we train the really big plant-eaters. Brontos, duckbills, ornithopods. They get used for transport, or anything that requires a lot of muscle, like that gate. The North quadrant is where we train the more combative plant-eaters. Triceratops, stegos, ankylos. They go into battle, of course. They’re big enough to be used for battle platforms, and they’re swell fighters themselves when they’re prodded. The East quadrant is where we train the smaller ones. Raptors, pachys, pteros, ostrich dinos. Ostrich dinos can be ridden. Raptors and pachys are excellent guards and fighters. Troodon is smart enough to carry messages, as are the smaller pteros. The biggest pteros can be ridden. I’ll train in the East quadrant sometimes, but I’m mostly in the West quadrant.”
“That’s the big meat-eaters are?”
“Yep. Dilophosaurus, carnotaurus, allosaurus, tyrannosaurus, and anything else that can bite, claw, or otherwise cause mayhem to the enemy.”
“That’s where I want to go.”
“I thought so.”
They dismounted and stabled their horses. They couldn’t bring the animals with them as horses tended to spook around dinos. They climbed aboard a carriage that was being pulled by a styracosaurus.
“West quadrant,” Azzear told the man.
Tom grinned. This was something he’d waited a long time for. His pumped excitedly and his blood felt like fizz in his veins.
Azzear caught his eye and looked at him seriously, “Listen, what said earlier, about safety, applies double, even triple around the carnosaurs.”
“I know,” said Tom.
“Good, just thought I’d bring it up. ‘Cause not a day goes by when I don’t hear about some rookie trainer who made a mistake, or even a veteran who did everything right, getting seriously injured or worse.”
“Every day?”
Azzear nodded, “See, what we do, to prepare these dinos for battle, has a lot to do with directing their natural impulses to attack. We just have to make sure they don’t attack our troops or disobey their handler. But even then, accidents happen, especially with the T-rexes.”
“Have you trained any T-rexes?”
Azzear nodded again, “Got a scar from each one.” He pulled up his shirt, “This one was Tyre,” he rolled up his trouser leg, “This on was Lugh. Both on accident when they stepped on me. This one,” he said, rolling up his sleeve and showing a circular scar that went around his whole arm, “was quite deliberate. Sue’s handiwork. Thank goodness we have a mage-healer on staff or I’d have lost the arm.”
“How do keep them from attacking you?”
“We start from birth. We pick them up and carry them around. This gets them to imprint onto us as a surrogate, and they also believe we’ll always be bigger than them. Even when they’re full grown.”
“So what makes them turn on you?”
“Well, like I said, you can train them to leave certain targets alone, but the instinct to attack, to kill, is always there. And sometimes instinct wins out over training. There’s just no way of knowing what’s going to set them off. I remember a guy who got killed, after his charge had bitten him in half, his last words were, ‘Sometimes the dragon wins.’”

Here is a story created by my daughter from the phrase; "Sometimes the Dragon Wins." There are three of us in our family who like to write, so we give a phrase every week and have until Friday to write as little or as much as our imaginations allow. My son's stories will be on the next posting. Mine isn't done yet.

Sometimes the Dragon Wins
by Emily Carson
He sits poring over the police report, the crime scene photographs, the coroner’s reports, and the tentative timeline. His name is Don Glasser and he is a profiler for the FBI. It is his job to analyze crime scenes and provide a profile of a possible suspect. As he has so many times before, he allows himself to imagine the crime as it happened.
Sarah Breckner tucks her four year old son, Stevie, in for the night. It’s a little chilly, so she shuts the window above his bed. Or tries to; it sticks and she can’t quite get it all the way down. She settles for shutting the blinds and giving Stevie an extra blanket. Sarah goes downstairs. She has trouble getting to sleep most nights; as is her habit, she turns on the television and lays down on the couch. It isn’t long before the droning noise has lulled her into a doze.
Outside, an intruder cuts through the screen of a living room window. He uses a hammer and a screwdriver to break the lock. Sarah stirs in her sleep, but it’s been a long day. She doesn’t awaken.
Quietly, the intruder climbs inside the house. He leaves footprints in the mud beneath the window, as well as a track on the floor. No fingerprints; he’s wearing gloves. He approaches Sarah, quietly, so quietly. She mutters in her sleep. Quickly he bends over her and clamps his hand over her mouth. She awakens, struggles, bites her lip, drawing blood.
Don takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. It’s from the bottom of the pot, thick as mud and bitter as death. This is the part that frightens him most; it’s easier to figure out what happened at the crime scene than it is to read the mind of the criminal. Yet that is what he is expected to do, it’s what he’s been trained for, to analyze the behavior of a suspect and provide a personality. What was this assailant thinking?
He jumps on Sarah, straddling her, pinning her down. Sarah is a strong woman; she runs nearly every day and swims three times a week. Fear makes her stronger, fear for her child and herself. She fights him, scratching his face. He hits her, sending the back of her head against a lamp. Her nightgown twists around her body as she struggles, leaving chafe marks on her neck and armpits. She backhands him, leaving bruises on her knuckles. Her struggle enrages him; he hits her again and again, breaking her nose, blacking an eye.
The assailant brings out his knife. It’s a hunting knife, made to dress deer and other game. He stabs Sarah through the right forearm, the knife going between the radius and ulna bones. Sarah screams. The noise finally wakes Stevie. He runs to the top of the stairs but doesn’t go down.
The assailant stabs Sarah four more times, two mortally. One punctures a lung, the other slashes the aorta.
“Mommy!” The intruder looks up. He didn’t expect a child. He runs out.
Sarah gets up. As her life is ebbing away, she knows she has to call for help. She staggers toward the kitchen and the telephone. It’s so far and she is so weak. So much blood . . .
Stevie runs down the stairs. He is crying hard now, and he wants his mother to be OK. He clings to her leg as she tries to get to the kitchen. Her blood drips down on his hair and inside his pajama top.
She’s almost there. “Please,” she gasps, not sure who she is entreating. She can feel the strength leaving her legs. Her knees buckle as she grasps the phone. She collapses on the floor, spent. Stevie huddles beside her, still crying as his mother breathes her last . . .
Don rubs his temples. One of his migraines is coming on, making his left eye water and left hand feel weak. He shuffles the papers in front of him, trying to piece the suspect together. From the footprints, he was about 6’4’’, weighing between 260 and 300 lbs. Sarah had his DNA under her fingernails, but this is either a first offense, or the perp has been careful till now, because they haven’t got a match from criminal records. Don thinks it’s more likely that the UNSUB, or unidentified subject, has been careful. Most criminals don’t start out breaking in and attacking. If the UNSUB had any record, it would be for window peeping or breaking and entering.
Since the man ran after he saw Stevie, Don doesn’t think he was stalking Sarah. A stalker would’ve expected the child. Sarah was well-off and attractive. It’s possible the man only had robbery on his mind, but got other ideas when he saw Sarah asleep on the couch. Entering, the UNSUB was organized. He had the knife and the tools. When he couldn’t control Sarah, he became disorganized. He left the tools under the window and the knife on the living room floor. This tells Don that he hasn’t attacked anyone before; any further crimes will begin blitz-style, with the UNSUB using maximum force to subdue his victims. He’ll have learned from this failure.
No fingerprints, no composite sketch. One witness, a traumatized four-year-old. Don writes his profile, but isn’t hopeful. Unless this man attacks again, or is arrested on an unrelated charge, it’s not likely he’ll be found. Stranger crimes, ones with no connection between the victim and the perp, are among the hardest to solve. By all accounts, no one who knew Sarah Breckner wished her ill. It appears she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Don lets out a frustrated growl, shoving some of the paperwork off his desk. He makes a promise then, one to Stevie and his mother, that he will not give up. He will keep fighting and looking for clues. Despite this, something one of his mentors at Quantico once said runs through his head: “Sometimes the dragon wins.”

Here is the opening paragraph to a book I am writing:

I remember my father’s hands. His fingers were long and slender, tipped by beautiful, strong fingernails. During the 13 short years that I knew him, his long, slender fingers began to grow crooked and clawlike from hard work; the knuckles swollen and misshapen from arthritis. His hands were dark, burnt by the sun. They were the hands of a man who spent most of his life making a living out in the fields: planting, harvesting, tending livestock and repairing machinery. The thumb and forefinger of his right hand were stained brownish yellow from the nicotine of the unfiltered cigarettes he smoked. To this day, the smell of cigarette smoke can take me back to a bright Autumn day when he took me to the cornfield with him to pick corn.