Photo and poem by Janna Hill
The fountain of youth is a murky pond
Fed by deep springs of optimism
Where no one dares to swim
Doubting toes splash at the shoreline
Mouths turned down like fingernail moons
A nervous frog leaps, we run
Still, the ripple marks the flesh
Once upon a time a long, a long time ago (before Black Friday) Thanksgiving was a celebration of harvest and a time to give thanks. Hence the name thanksgiving.
I don’t think the early pilgrims had a Super Walmart, a Sears or a Best Buy, yet somehow they managed. Can you imagine having to grow your own food and prepare it?
Where did they get their Stove Top stuffing… and who plucked the turkeys? How did those crazy pilgrims do it?
I didn’t really know any of those pilgrims but I did see a John Wayne movie once. John knew a pilgrim when he saw one. He seemed to know a lot of pilgrims but that was a long time ago too.
I propose we are all pilgrims, each one of us on a journey of sorts. Our own personal pilgrimage.
Aren’t we are all looking for something? Be it a quest for self-confirmation, truth, a cure, enrichment, enlightenment, comfort, a friend, a lover, a job, a meal, or a place to lay our weary head at the end of another day.
I believe life is a journey, or at least it should be. It would be terrible to think we were just flailing through this experience, killing time on this giant floating gumball, while waiting for the next Black Friday specials.
I believe we all have one destination, though we travel different roads and I trust that we have choices.
Hopefully we will choose well. On the occasion we do take a wrong turn [and we will from time to time] I pray we have enough sense and humility to stop and seek direction, to reassess our route and to be considerate in our voyage.
So here’s wishing all of you pilgrims a Happy Thanksgiving and may we all, whatever road we’re on, take time to look ahead, pause and bow our head in thanks.
My personal prayer:
I pray our good seeds of hope, humility, toil and courage produce abundantly; that love and kindness grow wild like the weeds of early spring – fruitful and undeterred. And may our harvest be rich with wisdom and discernment.
Thank you Father, The Creator of all things, for this day and all it holds. Thank you for the days past, and Father forgive me for my wrong turns. Thank you for the day to come and guide me to make better choices. Thank you for all the pilgrims in my life – for those who’ve gone ahead and the ones that come behind, and for those who read this prayer. And Thank You Father for the beacon that lights my way.
In Jesus name, Amen.
In an earlier post, I mentioned making Christmas cards from older shots I had found in my digital library.
Well, here you go. I made this one for you.
I snapped this photo of the pond at dawn in February 2009 with a little Olympus pocket camera.
There was a power outage (due to the heavy ice) so we boiled coffee on the stove.
The air was still and thin, painted in pale shades of blue as far as the eye could see. The world lay silent, other than the cracking of limbs all around us.
It was absolutely enchanting.
Here’s wishing you all, each and everyone, a very Merry Christmas.
The photo used for this cover was taken in February 2010. I was so excited to find it and knew right away it belonged to A Hard Candy Christmas . Don’t you just love finding things you forgot you had?
I think [if I can remember] I will make Christmas cards from some of the others.
This 99¢ short story is (so far) available at Apple, Amazon, Google, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble.
They Always Come on Sunday is part of the ‘horror’ anthology Short Stories & Such. I think most people dealing with this disease would agree it is a real nightmare.
There are seven days in a week, four weeks in a month and fifty two weeks in a year. Seven times fifty two equals three hundred sixty four. That doesn’t add up and there are five Mondays… and Tuesdays… and an extra Wednesday? I don’t understand –those are the most boring days available. Nonetheless I will scribble something; things have gotten so hectic I have taken to writing everything down.
I personally prefer Sundays. Fridays were never that exciting and Saturdays are just too busy. With the shopping and laundry and the endless play dates all I have to look forward to are Sundays. Some believe it is the last day of the week but according to my ledger it is the first. I suppose I have always looked forward to Sundays, especially Sunday dinner.
My grandmother was an excellent cook and she would rise early to prepare a lavish banquet fit for a wedding. As I recall it was after a delicious meal of chicken casserole, fresh cut green beans and scalloped potatoes that Edward Fry asked me to marry him. Edward’s father owned half of Cherokee county along with the mill and the lumberyard. Grandmother was thrilled by the proposal and credited her Italian Cream cake as the irresistible bait. My memory fails me as to why we argued later and she refused to give me the recipe. Whatever it was it didn’t hamper my love of Sundays.
Friends and family would always stop by after church or after fishing. People honor the Sabbath in different ways; I reckon one is as restful as the other. They knew me and I knew everyone in the community. That is not the case now. People visit but it’s not the same.
I hardly know these visitors. I have seen a few of them before but I haven’t a clue to what their names are and I am a bit suspicious of their intentions. They are just faces, acquaintances, people I presumably know though I do not recall precisely how we met.
A few of the faces gathering are not familiar at all. They smile and let on like they know me personally; like we’ve shared more than a cordial conversation or a hot cup of coffee. I find their behavior to be crass and much too assuming. They try too hard; with all of their grinning and nodding and batting their bloodshot eyes at me. It’s a ploy to seem sincere. They impose and pester me with niceties and the constant can I get you something as if this was the wake of a dead man and I was the widow.
Darrell (that’s what he calls himself) sits down beside me and pats me on the leg. When he’s not touching me he’s cooing and awing like I’m a goddamn baby. I try not to speak to him because it only encourages his vulgar behavior. He must be a hundred years old. The flesh beneath his eyes hangs in folds of blue and purple. One would think the puffiness would plump up those dark circles but it doesn’t.
I stare at his hand when he lets it rest on my thigh. It looks like a gardening fork draped with crepe paper and it’s cold. He makes me nervous. I move my leg away from him but he insists on petting me. He reaches toward my face, not in a hurried way which is good. I am faster than him and watch his eyes tear up when I land the second slap against his loose jaw. I say “You nasty son of a-” but before I can hit him again one of the faces catches my wrist and yells “Mother!” Darrell assures her it’s okay but the woman holding my hand argues and tells him “No, it is NOT okay.” I can tell she is upset as she firmly nestles my hands into my lap. I don’t know her very well but when I look into her eyes I feel it’s safe to trust her. Eyes are the mirror to the soul, I heard that somewhere once.
The sun is shining, casting a light midway across the quilted tulip bedspread. That is a sure indicator that it is past 10 AM. Usually when the rays peek over the headboard I am sitting upright with a cup of coffee half consumed and watching… what is the name of that morning show? Oh well, It doesn’t matter.
“Would you like your egg scrambled or poached?” he asks. I cannot see his face but I know the voice and my heart smiles.
“Scrambled please.” I purr, in my best seductive voice. I love Saturdays. Darrell lets me sleep in and serves me breakfast in bed. I know after the last bite of toast he will kiss the crumbs from my lips and we will make love. I unbutton my gown in anticipation.
“The kids will be coming for dinner.” he says, his voice coming closer. I sit up, smooth my hair and lick my lips. “Charlotte is home for Winter break, she will be coming too.”
“Who is Charlotte?”
“David’s daughter.” he replies. I cannot see his face yet but I sense the change in his tone, cracking slightly over the tinkling of cup against saucer.
“And who is David? Do I know him?”
“He’s your son Beth. Our son.” He says it softly and sets the tray across my lap. How is it he has aged so bitterly?
“We have a son named David?… David? Oh yes I remember sweet little Davy. He made me a jewelry box last Christmas… a cigar box covered in dry pasta and painted gold. What did I do with that box? Davy is my baby.”
“He is not a baby anymore Beth.”
“I know that silly!” I tell him as I pick at the ugly lumps of yellow lying before me. “Liz, Liz is the baby now.” Liz, the woman with the eyes I can trust.
“Eat up. Liz and Ron are bringing your favorite dessert and you know you can’t have sweets on an empty stomach.”
“Liz is my daughter; she makes the best Italian Cream cake.” I’m not sure why I said that but it makes him happy.
“Yes sweetie, yes, yes, yes.” He pecks out kisses on my forehead like a starving rooster; he hoovers over the bed smiling. Amidst the rays of sunshine, he looks like an angel, a weary angel. His once beautiful face lined with worry and too many sleepless nights.
“They always come on Sunday.” More words from my mouth, their origin a mystery.
“Yes, yes they do.”
Some days the birds are the only things I understand. The context of their chirps doesn’t change much. Words, warping and twisting themselves into a rope, strangle me. English is a foreign language, a dialect that seems barely recognizable, one I must strain at to recall. Each sentence is a puzzle and I search to find the words that fit… their place, their meaning. Signs and gestures, imported expressions and faces that that fade with the sun – I suppose they are more amicable than the demons at sundown.
I know that one day I will awake and find me gone, forever lost in that void of timeless confusion surrounded by strangers I once loved. Each day is like the next, a never-ending procession of things I cannot explain in a world I do not understand. With one transitory exception, they always come on Sunday.
I was doing a little research and got sidetracked. It happens.
According to HistoryOrb on October 29, 1988 China announced a herbal male contraceptive. Ironically (is that irony?) I was urr-umm [Kids cover your ears] – conceiving.
Apparently the papaya seeds were not a big hit.
So now, it is one of those mornings where research turns into reflection.
Although we have three other children, this is the baby, the caboose, the one made on this day in history and I can’t help but ponder.
or at least find him a wife so he doesn’t have to live alone…
How busy you ask? Well, busier than a one-armed wench in a fistfight!
I mentioned last month I was starting a new story and indeed, I did. In fact, I started two stories. See, I told you I was busy. Busier than a cat scratchin’ sh*t on a marble floor – and about as productive.
So, I started a couple of new projects only to find out a few older ones had been neglected. Arrrgh, right?! To make a long story short I will be flying solo. This independent business just got real (er). I still have my proofer but… did I tell you how busy I’ve been? Yeah. Busier than the headless horseman in a pie eating contest!
Where is he gonna put all of that pie?
Anyway, a week or so ago we took the evening off and drove to Terrell for the Fly In/ Flights of Our Fathers. We needed a little R & R and nothing says rest and relaxation like walking fifty miles in 110 degree Texas heat – in flip-flops. I’ve got blisters the size of Dallas between my toes! It ain’t pretty y’all.
And the drive… Oh my gosh Terrell is every bit of fifteen miles from where I sleep. That is twenty minutes in the car no matter how you slice it. Lord have mercy, all of this walking and driving and writing and re-writing…
Good News – Bad News
The good news, I half-ass re-re-re- edited the books that make up The Rage Trilogy. I do not believe authors can effectively edit their own work – but I am giving it a go. Physician heal thyself! Hmm, we will see.
I also ran a ‘cuss check’ and omitted 899 a few curse words. I rewarded me with a lollipop.
The bad news, I am behind schedule for the next two projects and people are wanting to rent blister space. Of course I had to tell them NO. I do not need people living on my feet, the ones taking up space in my head are more than enough. I did however offer them my flip-flops.
Anyhow, after all of that prattling I suppose it’s time to put my big girl panties on and ready for takeoff.
Until next time, here are a few shots from the airport.
I am still officially out to lunch but you know how it goes when a story gets inside your head and the schizophrenia kicks in. An old photograph comes alive, the landscape shifts, characters start cropping up and voila, The Sharecropper’s Son is conceived.
I have about two thousand (totally fictitious) words written so far and I have no idea how long the story will be. There are no deadlines to meet and though the destination is set, the path is not carved in stone. The only thing I know at this point is that I am excited to let the story tell itself.
This was the first Teen Poetry Contest hosted by Forney Arts Council. I attended the awards held at Crumbzz European Bistro and I must say it was fabulous darling. So was the crumb cake.
The judges (those present) chatted and then each had a turn at the mic. I read The Essence of a Poet – or at least I think I did. Alan Birkelbach (2005 Texas Poet Laureate) read a random piece from his satchel and Neil Melillo (English Literature AP) gave a light speech to comfort/encourage the contestants.
The awards were presented by Tiffany Wyndham (Event Planner and Emcee extraordinaire) prior to the readings.
I listened as each budding poet recited their lines of thought and somewhere between the cracks and bravado it occurred to me once more, these are the voices of our future.
The Real Janna Hill in 