Your Turn

                                                       I hope you enjoy this magical writing.   

Your turn:   Set your timer for 15 minutes and write, using any of the prompts below to jumpstart your writing.

Email your writing to Marlene at mcullen@comcast and I'll post on this page.  Please include a brief bio.

These prompts are designed to enhance writing that takes you on a journey, to encourage memories and to inspire your writing,  like storytelling on paper or computer screen.

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                           February 2012:  If I didn't care what anyone thought . . .

Credo Dreaming, by Heidi Sue Roth

January 2012: A gift someone gave you that you really didn't like or didn’t know what to do with.

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                      December 2011Prompt:  Believe

Believe, by Patrice Garrett 

David Sandri  has been in the wine industry for over 20 years, and has written and taught extensively in that field; he has finally gotten up the gumption to explore all of the snippets of creative written that have been floating around his head for even longer. He lives in Rohnert Park with his wife, Heidi Sue (a writer and book reviewer), and their odd little collection of pets.

Believe, by Carol Hoorn

Saying goodbye to my daughter at the airport, by Kelly Shaw

I Believe... by Princess Stirling

~ by Lynn Levy

     Carmen wasn’t supposed to be out alone after dark, but her head was full of fairy stories, and the fields were full of fireflies, and she just knew that if she could understand their blinking code, they’d lead her past the fields, into the woods, and to the tree where the fairies lived.

     Her brother preferred to catch the fireflies, putting them one by one into an old pickle jar, the lid pierced in a random pattern by an old butter knife, the bottom filled with a smattering of twigs and fresh leaves. They’d blink for him, sitting there on his nightstand, but to her their pattern always seemed a bit desperate, even despondent. It made her sad, every night when they gave up and stopped.

     Her brother said she was being stupid, that they were just going to sleep, but she always felt that they stopped because their hearts were broken. They were separated from the huge, glittering patterns they made with all their friends, and no-one came to rescue them. It made it impossible for her to sleep.

     Once, she got up in the middle of the night and took her brother’s fireflies outside, freed them in the dark of a new moon. They just sat there on the low branch in the yard where she had poured them out, didn’t even try to fly away. Her heart broke with them.

     She got into trouble the next morning. It didn’t make sense; the rule was that the fireflies had to be freed before breakfast, she’d just done it a little sooner. He brother was asleep, so he didn’t miss them, and anyway they were done flashing for the night. Her protests fell on deaf ears. She wasn’t to mess with her brother’s things (he smirked at her from behind their mother’s back where he couldn’t be scolded for attitude. She said nothing; tattling would make it worse) and she wasn’t to go out at night. In punishment, she was grounded for a week at dusk, not even allowed near the windows to watch them from the gloom of the living room, tucked behind the closed curtains to block out the light of the TV. It was monstrously unfair, and only intensified her need to see them.

     And so here she lay, hidden in the tall grass, staring up into a sky that glittered and pulsed in patterns and rhythms and beauty, but did not share its secret.

~ Lynn Levy

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                     November 2011 Prompt: What's new? . . . What if . . .

Bah Humbug, by Arlene Mandell

Just as the first storms drench our land
the catalogs arrive, crammed with
down coats and fleece-lined boots

rarely required in northern California
plus artificial trees bedazzled
with gaudy bows and golden ribbons

and monogrammed dog beds
which our pets would shred
in three shakes of a retriever’s tail.

What we really need is someone
strong to dig out tree stumps, sweep
pine needles off the roof.

These tree-wasters aren’t even useful
to light the fire so Santa won’t bring
more stuff down the chimney.

Arlene L. Mandell is hunkering down in Santa Rosa.

Magic Box, by Lynn Levy

            It was a magic box. Her brother didn’t believe her, and it was the sort of thing that didn’t work for grownups, but it worked for her.

            Discovering the box had been an accident. She’d begged for it at the flea market, and because she rarely asked for anything, and was willing to spend her own money, her Dad had given in, and handed her the fifty cents she was short, although it was a shame to miss the chance to teach her to dicker.

            The box was a small wooden chest – although big enough that it filled her arms, and dug into her breastbone, and made her puff as she carried it around all day, for the several hours until they returned to the old pickup truck. It had two doors, with handles shaped like tiny horseshoes, and behind those doors, rows and rows of tiny drawers.

            She could not have articulated its lure, the mystery of the hidden thing, but she knew that she would fill its many compartments with all her treasures and secrets. The mourning dove feather with its perfect oval spot; the interesting stone with the glistening vein of quartz; the spiky seedpod whose tree she had never found, and which smelled of licorice.

            It was one night, querulous with fever and unable to sleep, that she had gotten up to unmask her treasures by the light of a full moon, and discovered the box’s secret. For as the moonlight spilled into each open drawer, the ghosts of other treasures appeared, superimposed on her own, insubstantial and glowing faintly with the color of milk.

Poem, by Muriel Ellis

Where have all the chirpings gone?

Where the rustling leaves, the twigs that crackle underfoot?

What happened to the patter of rain on my window?

I only hear the thunder’s roar.

No tiny kitten mews, no infant coos

Only strident anger.

I hear and feel the thudding drums

The trumpet’s blare, the clashing cymbals

Where are the lovely chiming bells

The tinkling piano melodies?

What happened to the children’s laughter?

I only hear the shouting

Are there still locusts chirring nightly?

My daddy said that was stars twinkling

Lost to traffic roar and squealing brakes, angry honks

Or simply lost to aging ears?

Muriel remembers her grandmother bemoaning the fact that birds no longer sang. Now she is beginning to understand.

Morning Conversation, by Claudia Larson

          The sheep bleat out “time for bed” just before the sun goes down. They wait by the gate; un-shy now, of looking me in the face, realizing that I’m not a predator. Sheep have a knack for blurring their energy in a way that makes a flock appear to be one creature. It must be an anti-predator tactic.  In the morning, they hear me open the barn door. They yell "let me out and give me some alfalfa."  I comply. Carrying the alfalfa, I lead them across the barnyard to the gated pasture. Baa Baa Black Sheep kicks up her heels and twists in the air, a sort of sheepish Martha Graham move to welcome the day. The other two don’t attempt any dance moves, heading straight for the gate.

            The goats bleat “feed me, good morning, feed me, pet me, I’m bored, feed me." If I don’t secure the door behind its roller, Atalanta goat asserts her growing girth against the door, knocking it open enough to escape. My movements with them must be quick. If I don’t close the alfalfa stall door closed, they head straight for the hay bale pile, the bags of chicken food and crushed oyster shells and the uncleaned kitty litter box. Goats are hoofed puppies: curious, playful and like to have their heads scratched.

            The hens greet me too, clacking “give me treats, let us out to roam, let us out, let us out, who cares about hawks, let us out." I ignore their pleas, check their water and feed, look for eggs. On the way back to the house, I say good morning to eleven-year-old Kali, queen cat, the one who used to steal RyRy’s socks because Kali was no longer an only baby. Kittens Hermes, the barn roof climber and sheep greeter, and Artemis Lace, small, slim, eating-machine, bounce in front of me. The sun has just risen.

Claudia Larson watches the sun and the moon rise in Sebastopol, CA.

Advertisement Limited Inc. by Jane Person

          The tools of my trade:

                        Booming voice

                        Prized collection of antique duck decoys

                        A stuffed goose beer cooler, named Gandy

                        A 500-acre preserve in the Sacramento Valley

            Ducks Limited estimates my average yearly net sales at $250,000 dollars over the last 10 years.  Let me say, most humbly, their estimates do not speak of the net enjoyment I have brought hunters over these years or to the wealth of friendships and networking these workshops have provided participants.

            While it is true the recession has been a difficult challenge for us all, entrepreneurs, such as you, are among the fortunate having surplus funds for your manly, athletic pursuits.  No sense throwing your hard won money away in the stock and bond markets in today’s uncertainty.  Meet the challenge I present to you this day.

             Duck callers of all styles—antique ivories collected by well-known outdoorsmen over the decades.  Valuable rosewood and the most sought over widget callers hand carved from Amazon Basin teak.

            My prices range from (well you who have such resources are not interested in prices)—suffice it to say, the callers present great value.

            You are now the recipient of an exclusive invitation to join us on December 10, 2011 in a visit to:  JP Duck Club.

            Located 50 miles north of Sacramento (directions provided upon acceptance of this invitation). Overnight accommodations and meals available in our rustic ranch house

            Test out multiple callers—matched to breed.  Champagne, beer and barbeque will be available to celebrate the hunt.  Board members from Ducks Limited and California Wetlands Unlimited will speak on the ecology necessary to maintain bountiful hunting venues. 

            Enjoy the day and the ducks.  Celebrate the athleticism required in blowing your callers into the wind.   Please respond by November 30, 2011. 

Jane Person began writing with strangers who have now become friends. Writing each week in Jumpstart, she believes, gives opportunity to gift a bit of ourselves with each other in a passion we share.

WHAT IF……by Carol Hoorn                                                      

Laguna Cycle, by Donna Briggs

Leaves fall softly to the ground.
The mown hay piles up.
Tiny acorns thud to earth.
And the whole sky quiets.

Soft steam arises from the creek.
Crawdads bundle their mudballs.
Spiders wait for webs to dry.
Morning light wakes up the sky.

Hungry birds awaken to grassy smells
Lace balls of seeds and crickets—
Hopping, leaping and joyfully living,
Amidst the dead and fallen grasses.

Life in the laguna continues on its path
Of individuals interconnected and
Living-dying in the moment
As the sky puts itself to bed.

Donna Briggs has talked about writing all her life. Now it's time to do it.

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                     October 2011 Prompt: I was so scared . . .   or  If only . . .

           The prompt "I was so scared" is inspired by Dave Pokorny's West Side Stories: http://web.mac.com/djampokorny

If Only, by Muriel Ellis

If I only had a brain. . .

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                                        September 2011 Prompt:  Containers

The Amaryllis Project, by Arlene Mandell

I stare into a pot of dirt–

amaryllis, an inch of green

poking through, surrounded

by pale crocus sprouts

and think about how much time

I spend in anticipation . . .

next week . . . next year . . .

while in the meadow

foamy manzanita flowers

decorate mahogany branches

offering a palette of subtle beauty

cloaked in morning fog.

Arlene Mandell sometimes tries too hard to achieve perfection in gardening and writing in Santa Rosa.

Containers, by Elaine Lannert

Presents in boxes

Goodies in shopping bags

Cast offs in sacks

Bodies in coffins

So on and so on

So much stuff each needing their special container. But what about the contents inside us, not our organs, but those intangibles that make us who we are.

What protective container do we carefully place our soul in? What kind of lock box do we safely tuck our precious mind in?

So much attention to protecting what is on the outside where visible threats and dangers lurk. But those unreplaceable parts of us, those entities that enable us to keep going on in our own unique way, we neglect.

Protection and aid are sought only after tragedy strikes and our wounds lay gashed open bleeding, but bloodless, weeping but no tears.

Listen and feel, take care, do not take for granted. Covet and protect and place safely in proper containers your mind, your soul and your heart for if damaged they sometimes do not heal, they do not survive and we are left orphans to ourselves.

Elaine Lannert resides in Petaluma, California. In a very surprising way, loss and sorrow led her down an unexpected path where she found pen, paper and Marlene's Jumpstart workshops. Grief was the ink in her pen and so with a lot of trepidation and encouragement she began to write about her eighteen year long journey losing her husband to Alzheimer's. Writing became the prescription for healing and opened up a wonderful world of new friends and experiences. Inspiration comes from such unexpected places as she continues to put thoughts on paper.

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                           August 2011 Prompts: An Article Of Clothing, Mothers, A Loose Board 

MOTHERLESS CHILD    by Victoria Gates

The endless cry of the motherless child:

Where is my mother?

Who is my mother?

Through every sorrow, every loss,

Each heartbreak,

Each shattered dream:

Where is my mother?

Who is my mother?

Through every joy, every gain,

Each brilliance flashing across

The mind or life:

Where is my mother?

Who is my mother?

                                                              Then

The eternal answer is heard,

At last.

I am here.

I am in the love you love with,

In the sisters who have walked by your side,

And sometimes carried you.

I am in the women who have loved you,

And nurtured you,

And betrayed you,

And taught you.

I am here in it all.

I have worn a thousand faces

On a thousand different days.

                                                                Stop crying.

It is a lie that you are motherless.

Victoria Gates lives in Petaluma. "I have been writing all my life. I am now retired so there is time in my life and space in my mind to begin, travel through and complete a story I have been formulating for about 30 years. The beginning is on paper, as is the end. The middle story is organizing itself in my mind continuously. This is a wonderful place to be in life and in the process."

An Article of Clothing, by Lynn Levy

            In those days, people dressed up a lot more. Not just for the obvious stuff like church or a special dinner, but for things you’d laugh about now. Flying was a dress up occasion. The airports were like opera houses, where men glided by in suits and fedoras, and ladies click-clacked down the long tiled terminals in skirts and heels.

            I was to fly for the first time that day, a special trip with my mother, off to meet up with my father in New York, where he had been for a week on business. Now he was finished, and we were on our way to join him, four glorious days of vacation planned before the two-day return trip in the car. He promised me a Broadway show, and to see the Statue of Liberty.

            Now, though, my immediate dilemma was to choose what to wear on the plane. Mother was excited too, and was feeling expansive. She gave me free rein to choose my outfit – even pants! – as long as it was one of my nice ones.

            I had immediately excluded all the pink dresses, hand-me-downs from an older cousin. I hated pink, it made me look sallow, and hated skirts, because they turned walking and sitting into activities where rules could be broken. And anyway, my legs always got cold. I never could figure out how my mother could stride along the downtown high street in deepest January, tugging me by the hand, exposed from knee to ankle to the biting air, and not seem to notice.

            A glint of silver caught my eye, and my choice was made.

            Deep forest green pants with a permanent crease sewn in down the front. The color and the crease were good, but the best part was the belt, a chain of hammered metal ovals, scallop-edged and three dimensional, a pattern I would one day learn is called a squash blossom. The links folded into my hand with a cool weight, unfolded and undulated, snake-like, as I stretched it out to be put on. I looked in the mirror, admiring the way it glittered. I was proud of that belt.

            A white shirt, matching green vest, boots, and a swipe at my hair, and I was ready to wait with Mother for the cab.

We got to the airport in plenty of time. But we hadn’t counted on the metal detectors.

Graduation by Carol Hoorn

Mothers, by Trice Bonney

            We think back through our mothers if we are women who wish to become our full magnificent True Selves. We think back not just through our own mother, but hers, and then hers, and back we go through our lineage, looking and learning about what has come before us, not only in the gifts that but also the patterns and behaviors that hold us back. I believe all of our women ancestors are standing in spirit behind us, supporting us to be the one who breaks these destructive patterns. They are whispering in our ears “You are the one to shine.” These whispers of support and love are so clearly available to us if only we take the time to stop and listen. Stopping to learn and honor what has come before us teaches us how to be and how not to be. These ancestors bring us to our truth by showing us our unique beauty and gifts. It is up to us to listen, learn and grow.

     We can learn so much from the patterns of what has come down to us through this line of women. We are living in a time when our culture realizes the importance of connecting with all that is available to us in the universe We can learn not only from our own ancestor lineage but the lineage of all women; learning how to accomplish what is ours to accomplish by being aware of how those who have come before have done it. We as women have a unique ability to see past the practical and logical ways of life into the spiritual and emotional side of our existence.

     If we truly learn to nurture our path and our selves, we nurture the entire world.

Discovering A Loose Board, by Pam

Alaska - 315 2nd Ave - 1975

            The morning coffee's sweet aroma tantalizing my taste buds, I was sitting up in bed musing away the moments. Gazing out of the dormer window I glanced down and noticed a loose board. Curious I got up and went over to it and gently pulled, it came away easily. I was somewhat dismayed, the house was built in 1904, this may lead to major repairs.

            Wait,  what is that I see? An old newspaper, crisp, scrunched, yellow with age with a more than slight smell of mold. The wall is full of old newspapers .  My goodness,
it was used for insulation.

            I was beyond excited, shaking a little, and I started to gently retrieve these relics of the from the past. If they separated I put them back together like a jigsaw puzzle. The dates
l903-l904 - a peek into years gone by. Into lives of settlers of long ago, Weddings, Births, Deaths. The hours wiled away, I hardly noticed. Billy Knowles arrested for falling in the
ditch drunk; Cindy Jones gave birth to twins; Nancy Fields is sailing to the "South 48" aboard the Alaska Steam Ship, Alaska Nellie shoots a grizzly bear. While I read about these total  strangers, they become close friends - Friends for awhile.          

                         ~~~~~~~

                           July 2011 - Prompt: What I Know  . . .

The Decision, by P. Garrett

What I know is that I did the right thing. The woman who called was a total stranger to me — yet due to circumstances she was not. Her story was universal. She’d thought I’d be the perfect one she said, when she explained her situation. I looked at my dog and deep into myself. I knew I could not turn away.

And so I sit at my computer, working at my writing, in my small house, in my tiny office, bookended by 280 pounds of black fur and muscle. A six year-old Newfoundland sprawls on one side of my chair, an enormous one year-old snores on the other, feet twitching in his sleep. These two gentle giants are more than twice my weight. Both desire lots of hugging, and drool copiously. Later today I’ll check the walls and do ‘spit’ duty with a wet towel. Looking like almost identical twins, they stare at me with expressive golden-brown eyes full of intelligence.

“Everything will be fine,” I tell them, trying to impart comfort when I see confusion in the young one’s eyes. Not very far away a woman who is no longer a stranger to me fights for her life.

I hope the fight is a little easier because she knows her beloved companion is in caring

human hands with a furry friend to share his days. What we don’t know is how this story will end.

— P. Garrett - rider, writer and PR professional. communications ink/wordwranglingwoman

—Arlene L. Mandell, Santa Rosa

Untitled by Lynn Levy

— Elaine Lannert

                                                   ~~~~~~~

~ I never thought I would be 57 years old and still learning what it means to be a good human being!

   James Seamarsh, still writing after all these years . . .

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                                                          May 2011 - Prompt: Evening

 After Supper, by Arlene Mandell

     Summer nights on Hemlock Street were so much fun.  Most of us ate supper at five o’clock as soon as our fathers came home from work.  Then we raced outside to play again.  Stoop ball, potsy (that’s what we called hopscotch in Brooklyn), jump rope for the girls, stick ball for the boys.  We clutched dimes in sweaty palms waiting for Joe the ice cream man to ring his bell.  My favorite was a black-and-white sundae – vanilla ice cream in a cup with chocolate syrup on top.  Some of the syrup would stick to the lid.  Licking it off was an extra delight.

     And then, when I was thirteen, everything changed.  A seventeen-year-old boy appeared across the street with a Tennessee accent and deep brown eyes.  I’d sit on the front stoop near my parents, listening to them chat with his parents, waiting for him to notice me.  At the end of that summer, he did.

Arlene L. Mandell sometimes misplaces her small dog, Ringo, but remembers a certain boy’s voice back in 1954 when he said, "Hi Sugar."                                                          

Evening, by Jennie Frost Butler 

Evening,  by Elaine Lannert

     Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time.  My time for melancholy - gateway to the dark night.  Twilight used to usher him in from his day's work as he was greeted by little daughters, Shirley Temples, cocktails. It was that soft time of day, the end of have to's and the beginning of fun family time, dinner, games, favorite TV programs, bubble baths and bedtime.

     Evening no longer is inviting for it is very stingy with its light and I feel unsure and unsafe in its cloak of darkness.

     Now twilight brings different feelings.  No one to greet, no sounds of family time, no chaos, no laughter.

     Evening time, my so alone time and when the lights go out, the dragons come to visit bringing worries, woes and memories I want to forget.  Sleep plays hide and seek with me, so elusive with promises of peaceful slumber only to trick me into tumbling tosses and tangles with the blankets and unwanted dreams.

      I can't wait to greet the dawn.

Evening, by Debbie Weiss 

     I love a summer evening.  Just starting to get dark, still a slight warmth in the air.  The sun going down leaving colors of red, orange, and pink so we know another warm day is coming tomorrow. 

     Feeling lazy, drinking tea on the deck, music playing softly from the radio.   I lean back on the soft lounge cushion and close my eyes.  I think about nothing.  Sometimes I like nothing.  No worries, no fears, no pressures, I accept nothing as a treasure. 

       I let my mind wonder to running through the alley-ways, playing hide-and-go-seek with my friends during a hot summer evening at about age nine. 

        I can still smell the giant green pickles sitting in all their juices in the huge gray barrel in front of my dad's store.  The smell captured in my mind so deeply, I can hear me crunching down and the tart taste in my mouth. 

       Watching coke pour out of a skinny glass bottle into a tall clear glass of crushed ice.  A taste so sweet to my lips.

       As the evening gets cooler and darkness and bright stars enter the sky, I sit back in the rolling bubbles of the hot tub.  White foam swirls around my legs, hot steam wets my face.  I outstretch my arms and lean back closing my eyes once again, as this lovely summer evening comes to its close.

 Evening, by Becky Winslow                                                              

Evening descends before I’m ready for the day to end, before I’ve finished everything I’ve planned to do.

Darkness brings a quiet to the world that settles the senses like early morning. I like the stillness. It nestles around my body and brings forth thoughts I’d saved up all day for now or so it seems since day brings busyness and no time for thought.

In the stillness of the evening, I am free to contemplate myriad thoughts, no action necessary. I think how wonderful it was in my youth when evenings were filled with my family gathered around the potbelly stove, eating popcorn and playing board games and laughing and joking and loving one another with all our heart and soul.

Evenings take me back to innocence and fireflies.

Becky Winslow is an author/poet/playwright and director who calls Petaluma her home. She studied writing with Walter Van Tilburg Clark at SF State, and Lawrence Hart at College of Marin. She has penned countless short stories, plays, essays and poetry which have been published in numerous regional periodicals. Her short story, The Ghost in The Bathtub appears in the anthology, Cover of Darkness. She has been a featured writer at Poetry, Pints and Prose; acted with Joe Peer in her 10 minute play, Parting Words; written and produced two television projects: Ways To Do Better In School and Interview With Geri Digiorno, a past Poet Laureate of Sonoma County.

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                                                                              April 2011 - Prompt: Balance

  Balance, by Jane Person

My grandfather made me heavy wooden stilts.

            I learned to balance.

My mother gave me a bike one Christmas.

            I learned to balance.

Jackknife and Swans off the high dive

            I learned to balance.

Homework and tennis side by side

            I learned to balance.

 I married with its gives and takes.

            I learned to balance.

I fell on my ass the other day.

            Guess I have more to learn.

                                                                                                                                                                     ~~~~~~~~

The Next Time, by Elaine Lannert

                                           ~~~~~~~

                                 February 2011 - Prompt:  What would the hardest thing be for you to give up? 

  I couldn’t give up my keyboard! (At least not willingly!)  by Kelly

Sometimes I’m clumsy, inarticulate with the spoken word but when my keyboard starts to dance my world comes alive. It offers me a chance to visit any place I want to be. I call it ‘the art of being lost’. I write because I cannot do anything else. I write because my heartbeat is amplified, because every scent, every taste, every beauty, every fear that starts in my mind will eventually work its way to my fingertips.

Reading, My Window on the World by Arlene Mandell

When I was three years old, with a little help from my mother, father and devoted aunts, I began unlocking the secrets in my storybooks.  At five I walked to the Public Library on Liberty Avenue in Brooklyn and got my first library card.  At thirteen, when I told my mentor and high school history teacher that I had read War and Peace over the summer vacation, he began giving me his New York Times each day.

Now, days away from my 70th birthday, my devotion to the written word is greater than ever.  There are 20 books on my library “reserved” list and 10 more on my “wish list”.  I still start the day with the Times, then check my email.  I confess to reading The Huffington Post and an occasional story about the worst-dressed actors at an awards ceremony.  BUT I don’t engage in Facebook or Twitter because for me reading is far too precious to squander on chitchat.

Right now I’m reading The True Memoirs of Little K, a fictional account of the prima ballerina assoluta and mistress of tsarevich Nicholas by Adrienne Sharp, continuing my interest in Russia before the revolution and Grand Ambition, a novel by Healdsburg author Lisa Michaels about  young newlyweds who set out to run the rapids of the Grand Canyon in a homemade boat.

Despite delusions of being the long lost daughter of Romanoff Princess Anatasia and with a distinct dread of even the smallest rapids, I engage in extraordinary adventures while sunning in my own backyard.

Arlene L. Mandell is a former NJ English professor enjoying her retirement in Santa Rosa, CA.

The most difficult to give up by Charlene Bunas

My new grandchild smells like the Johnson's lotion her daddy rubs on her arms, legs, tummy. Yesterday she saw her first daffodil and studied that butter-hued early dancer in the first spring winds. Tomorrow she will test her feet. Perhaps she'll walk on the first try. Probably she'll fall. Maybe she'll cry. I am so lucky to share life with her.

What would be most difficult to give up? "The next generation."

Charlene Bunas has four grandchildren, all of them precious.

Don't Take This Away From Me by Muriel Ellis

What’s the worst thing you could take away from me?

     Hands down—no contest, Take away my car, tell me I can no longer simply get behind the wheel and GO, do whatever I want whenever I choose—why not just take away my. . .ME.

     Never mind the horrendous increase in gas prices. I’ll give up steaks for hot dogs. I’ll move to a smaller apartment. I’ll give all (well, maybe most) of my books. Anything—no more cokes or wine, just water. No more Jump or Quick starts.  Now hold on thee, please, not NOT that. But maybe even that if I still can get in my car and hit the road.   

     I’m not alone in this. I realize that someone, some friend, will tell me, “I’ll be happy to take you. Any time, Just ask.”

     Of course you won’t. Not just any time. That’s ridiculous. Besides, when I get off and running I may not always know just where or what I’m after.

     Okay—I guess I do know exactly what I’m after. I’m hanging on to freedom, independence. I know that countless generations managed quite nicely to live full lives without instant mobility.

     So what? Never had it. Never even dream it might be possible. Can’t miss the impossible, the undreamed of.

     But I know what I’ve had. Just don’t even try to take it away.

                                                                         ~~~~~~~

                                                               January 2011 - Prompt:  Winter

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home. by Edith Stilwell

Winter by Christina Gleason

the dream of sunlight buried beneath

its folds of tender down sleep

the great white northern bear

hardly breathing . . .

ice crystals among millions

lay upon the frozen slope

long fallen night

its whispers unheard

still promise of thaw

and

warmth

again.

Winter by Rebecca (Becky) Young Winslow

Winter by Claudia Larson

            When people hear that I’m from North Dakota, 99% of the time they involuntarily shiver and say “Boy! It’s cold up there in the winter, hnunh?”  They say it as if living there during that season is a punishment.  I usually reply, “It never bothered me.”

            It didn’t bother me to stuff my dress into thickly padded snow pants, shoving the full skirts into the pants with wedge-like hands. 

            Although it was annoying to get red, chapped wrists after a bracelet of skin had been exposed to the snow, then itching in the warm house, it was worth all the hours spent digging snow forts, breathing icicle air, eating handfuls of snow, riding cardboard boxes down six feet tall snow piles, trudging across the pasture in subzero weather to the slough where snow ruffles were frozen, along with pennyroyal and burdock.

            There was no CNN to tell us that we were suffering extreme cold and blizzard conditions.  I loved the mind-clearing temperatures and the snow drifts piling up over the country roads. I accepted, like the sun rising and setting every day, that every winter there would be at least one power outage, leaving our house dark and chilly except for candles and the gas stove as we waited for Dad to tinker with the ancient generator until it kicked in to give us electricity. 

            Snow was simply part of our playground.  There would be piles of cleared snow in our farm yard and in the Liberty Elementary country schoolyard. Standing atop on those white mountains, still tall come springtime, I could hear the newborn lambs mewing from the neighboring farm.

            One winter night, Dad didn’t get the ’56 Ford sedan into the garage during a blizzard. 
The next morning, we kids climbed onto the utility room bench, looked out the window and saw nothing but the radio antenna sticking out of the snow, waving hello.  I can still feel the feet-dancing excitement that slid me out the door and into the snow.

Claudia Walen Larson left the prairies over 40 years ago, but they’re part of her blood and bones even while she lives in Sebastopol, CA.

Winter by Elaine Lannert

            Winter - last season, dark season, wet and cold season, Yet there is such a comfort to curling up in front of the fire, joy to hear raindrops on the roof which turn the amber of
autumn into emerald fields. Mother Nature is giving notice it is time to shower. When grey clouds are my ceiling and wet pavement my floor, I feel an explainable surge of
energy.

            I don't think there is a time of year when the aromas in the kitchen are ever better be it soup simmering, meat roasting, pies baking or cider mulling.

           A sense of home and hearth, warmth and comfort become my overcoat for this special time of year.

            As I grow older, I am learning to enjoy and embrace all seasons of the year as I embrace all seasons of my life.

Winter by Nora

            As an adult, I love winter.  I think I must have as a child, too.   I have happy memories of rubber boots, puddles, warm school classrooms and piping hot tomato soup in my thermos.  Growing up in California I’ve never really known a harsh winter.  I’ve never had to drive in snow or on icy streets.

            I love the coziness of winter; fires roaring in the fireplace, homemade Afghans to curl up in and read or fall asleep for a long winter’s nap, soup always simmering on the stove top.  I love watching the rain, hearing it as I fall asleep at night or wake up in the middle of the middle of the night.

            There’s a comfort to winter.  It’s a time of reflection and renewal, of promises we make to ourselves.  It’s full of wonder to me.

                                         ~~~~~~~

                                                        December 2010 - Prompt: "Right now . . . "

Right Now, by Nora

—Nora, Sonoma, California

Right now, by Claudia

         Right, now left, now right. My thoughts veer over the double yellow line and off the road, hopping over the ditch and into the black night.  

                                            November 2010  ~ Prompt:  I am from . . .

I am from

I Am From

— Jane Person

I am from 45^th Street.

I am from childhood, now

reaching for my nineties.

I hope.

I am from a mother

loving but

depressed.   And why

shouldn’t she have been?

I am from a Wisconsin father

dead upon my birth,

killed by people who suffered

their own losses.

I am from a Catholic school,

a ghetto high school, an I-flunked-out

of-college university, and a

caring Wisconsin college.

I am from Hawaii waves of

grad school, friends, and ocean.

I ride the waves

of water and life.

I am from stuffed feelings now

sprung to greet a new world.

I am from quirky, not what

you might expect.

I am from Petaluma-downtown

mills, chicken coops,

and pre-earthquake buildings.

Quirky town meets quirky girl.

I am from living in the now--

                                                            October 2010    ~     Prompt:   Today . . .

October's prompt inspired by b. lynn goodwin, publisher of Writer Advice, www.writeradvice.com and author of You Want Me To Do What? – Journaling for Caregivers (Tate Publishing)

 September 2010 Prompt: Summer

Thoughts of Summer by Becky Young Winslow

Summer is supposed to be that happy, sunshine time. Let me think about this.

August 2010   Prompt: I remember                

I remember watching shafts of light shifting on my closet doors, shadows cast in through long, slender branches of the weeping willow tree in our backyard.  I remember how those shifting shapes both terrified and mesmerized me, alive as they seemed to be, dancing and twirling to a music all their own. 

I remember how immense that weeping willow seemed to me then, a virtual cascade of curly green leaves that I would part with my hands like a Japanese curtain, duck below and find myself inside, an enormous cavern at the center of which stood a thick tree trunk, solid and unmoving.  It was into that childhood cave I would disappear for hours – or maybe just minutes; time didn’t exist for me then.  I would hang on the tree’s flowing tresses like I was Tarzan or Jane, braid them as if the hair of a girlfriend. 

I remember the fuzzy black and yellow caterpillars I would find clinging to the vines, how soft they felt, how their seemingly endless number of legs tickled my arm as they shuffled their way up past my elbow trying to lose themselves in the tangles of my long, curly hair. 

I remember how my brother and I held several of those caterpillars, what we called “fuzzie-wuzzies”, captive in empty jam jars, then how the jars rested on the window sill in the family room, the one by the bird cage, so if they got lonely, they could look out.  I remember how excited we were to find a fuzzy-wuzzy had magically become a cocoon, and in a matter of days, emerged from that veiled solitude, transformed: a black and yellow butterfly, fluttering wildly until we took it out in the backyard, unscrewed the punctured lid, and released them to the big blue sky.       

  — Christine Falcone

I remember waking up and getting ready for school. There was a ritual about it. Put on underwear, robe over that. Come to the kitchen for breakfast. Cold cereal and orange juice on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Hot oatmeal and hot chocolate on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I don’t know why it was so regimented. My mother’s way of being organized, I guess.

I remember the chill of the early mornings. I remember the feeling of comfort and safety in a world full of sure things, like breakfast always ready and predictable. Bag lunches were also predictable. Bologna or cheese (never together, though) on white bread, carrot sticks or an apple and cookies or cupcake for dessert. Very little variation. I remember trading. My homemade cupcake for Margie’s Hostess Twinkies.

After school also had a routine. Always, first thing, change from school clothes to play clothes. Like I said, my mother was very regimented and pretty strict. Fair, but strict. I remember another of my mother’s routines – kissing everyone good night. Grandfather, Nana and Mom. Hmmm, seemed like so many more people at the time.

I remember being very young, around four-years-old and watching the I Love Lucy Show in my little red rocking chair, sitting squarely in front of the TV. I remember feeling very clean. I remember feeling safe and secure in a world full of certainties. When did this feeling go away/vanish?

The first memory of when this safe feeling disappeared was on a Christmas Eve, almost sixty years ago, going to Grandmother's house. It was raining. My father wanted to drive. He was drunk. It was the scariest ride of my life. I remember my mother pleading with him to let her drive. I remember looking out the car windows, from the backseat, watching the raindrops form a pattern on the window. Red traffic lights were blurred. The windshield wipers were a horrible ominous reminder of the precarious situation we were in as we drove across town.

— Marlene Cullen

Marlene is thankful every day for the wonderful life she has had and continues to have.