Cat’s fur to make kitten britches. Do you want a pair?
Two little sentences equivalent to a conversational slap in the face. A lingual jolt to snap you out of your train of thought.
Pulled from the dusty back section of my filing cabinet of memories, my mind opens a folder marked Childhood to hear these nonsensical words spoken in my Dad’s voice. The ethereal sound is followed by visions of puzzled expressions on the little faces peering up at their role model for answers to a myriad of questions.
A diversion made of ordinary letters and syllables. The perfect…
The clock’s second-hand kept ticking with a steady, unaltering rhythm. Heart rates increased with each tinge of panic infiltrating the bloodstream. All the while, time marched on with no interest in current events.
Well after midnight, our household was awakened. Each of us grabbed by the collar and yanked out the door of tranquility by the forceful hand of a loved one in distress. Exiting the blissful realm of dreams, we landed in a moment of crisis.
It was the early 1970’s. I was only about 6 years old and had not yet experienced an asthma attack firsthand. My calmness…
Troubled dark clouds fill my head. Lulled to sleep each night by thunderous weeps as raindrops of sadness soak my pillow. Looking for a pocket of joy in a coat of sadness worn for too many migraine filled months.
Joy is a forgotten pleasure. My mind stretches in desperation to grasp the flickering remnants of happiness that grow weaker, more distant.
Joy disappears into the dark void of despondency. My will surrenders, collapsing into a heap of useless flesh melting into a remote corner of abandonment.
The steady rhythm of breathing suggests life continues. Lost in the battle, I lie…
The sun was shining on the little house on 5th Street. Even though cartoons were playing on the television inside the house, the playground de jour was the front yard. The 60/40 mix of grass and weeds was encroaching onto the uneven rectangular sections of sidewalk cutting through the yard.
Cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, kicking a ball around, riding a tricycle along the sidewalk expressway … I do not remember what we were playing.
The imagination of a child is far more powerful than midlife memory.
Mom burst out the front door, interrupting our creative thoughts with reality…
“Tammy Cullou! And how are you?”
The old farmer’s sing song voice greeted me with a smile each morning during harvest, in a small Oklahoma town along the custom combining trail. With less than a decade under my belt, any adult could be labelled old and location was of little consequence to summertime play.
I have never known the proper spelling or meaning of cullou; if there is a meaning at all. The simplest answer may lie in the arrangement of letters creating the necessary number of syllables and rhyming with the word ‘you’. …
The voice resonating from old black and white photographs commands attention. Yellowed by age with edges worn down by the vestiges of time, these windows to the past contain an earnestness not found in today’s studio portraits and urban alley photo shoots.
Our ancestors were not pretending. Strong and steadfast, the eyes looking out from time battered photographs contain a depth of living that would shatter the delicate psyche of today’s version of humans, myself included.
Sifting through a box of old family photos, I find solemn pictures of Maggie before she and I knew each other. Her neatly coiffed…
Life is not so much a circle as a grotesque, misshaped circuit of ups and downs and around the bends. Gentle curves and peaceful straightaways blindsided by the occasional sharp turn until we return to the place of origin.
My circuit began on a cool Wednesday in February. The high temperature hit 41 degrees that day, though the gusty winter winds would have added a biting chill to the air.
My apprehensive arrival into the world was inconsiderate of others’ time. The doctor had planned to have a day off that day. …
I sense a smile on the face of fate today.
Sunshine radiates through the atmosphere adding warmth to the crisp autumn air, balancing the brisk breeze to a perfect temperature. Changing seasons bring a peaceful contentment as time moves forward with discipline and familiarity.
I pulled into the driveway of the cute little senior housing fourplex my Mom calls home. The sidewalk strolls past a favorite diner for the local hummingbirds and onto a cozy two-seater sized porch with a perimeter of traditional white railing.
She has never been sentimental about where she resides. A fact much appreciated by my…
When you are helpless to control your fate, who is the maestro conducting the details?
We were sitting ducks. A family of four sitting ducks, to be precise.
The headlights were closing in on us. The jagged glowing eyes penetrating the darkness grew larger as the space between us was devoured by a metal beast controlled by an impaired mass of flesh and bones.
The blackness of night had held no air of dread, no sign of an impending crossroads. Each step, each breath, each word was not unlike any other minute, of any other night. A typical evening heading…
Have you ever sewn something?
I’m not talking about returning a button to its place of residence on a shirt or jacket. I’m talking about creating the shirt or jacket. Starting with a rectangle of fabric and transforming it into an article of clothing suitable for wearing in public. Not an easy task. Sewing is hard. Sewing is geometry and engineering and art all rolled into one.
My Grandma Maggie understood how to sew. Born in 1909 in a small Oklahoma town, learning to sew was part of life for this young woman. …
Ex-accountant, lifetime cat lover and avid wearer of hats. Exploring a creative path during the second half of my existence.