Story Time Tuesday - Writing Fiction - Chapter 1A

Continuing on with Story Time Tuesday and fiction, I decided to go an entire different route then Tales from Home. I wanted to use a different voice and meter and write along a more "commercial" formula. The chapters in this are quite a bit longer so I'm going to break each into two parts. I hope you enjoy this. I continue to feel oddly shy about posting this work which seems crazy in light of the fact that I bore you with my blah, blah, blah the rest of the days.

So...

With no further ado...

I give you...

Writing Fiction - Chapter 1A

My name is Pearl and I am a liar.

I didn’t plan on becoming a liar. It just kind of happened.

But maybe being a liar is better than what I really am…a lonely old woman.

Sometimes I think I need to invent a new formula to determine “true age years”. You know? Like those calculations that say a 7- year old dog is really 47-years old. Maybe the “true age” for a 60-year old woman with a broken heart is 81 ½- years old. And no, I don’t mean ‘81 ½ years young’.

Before I became 81 ½ years old, I’d always prided myself on being kind and compassionate. I’d thought I was quite skilled in my ability to help my friends and family through their darkest moments with a smile and a phone call. I’d been proficient in the manufacturing and distribution of ham and scalloped potato casseroles accompanied by a little note and a brown sugar pound cake. “Remember you need rain so you can have rainbows,” I’d write confidentally in black gel pen. “Keep going, things will get better,” I’d inscribe to those in sorrow. I’d really believed those words I’d written with such surety. I still do. I just no longer believe they apply to me.

Before I became 81 ½ years old, I’d known all the euphemisms for dying: pass away, pass on, depart this life, succumb, meet your maker, pushing up daisies, bought the farm, deceased. I could talk with the over-perfumed, mascara-running women at calling hours and funerals without ever actually saying the word, “death”.

Before I became 81 ½ years old, my husband was still alive. And I’d been on the giving side of the euphemisms, not on the receiving side. It’s unbelievable how many miles exist between those polar opposites. And how many tears.

I passed through the weeks immediately after my husband began ‘pushing up daisies’, on his way to ‘meet his maker’ ‘before plowing his last row at the farm’, in a zombie like state. Remember back in 1968 when “Night of the Living Dead” began playing at the movies? Remember being afraid, but also slightly incredulous that such a thing could be even remotely possible? Remember thinking, or perhaps saying, “Yeah, that could only happen in the movies”? Well now I think that movie might have been written by someone who’d just experienced a huge loss. It’s the only way the director could have possibly gotten something so ludicrous, so right.

If I’d have bothered re-costuming myself and learned how to apply gobs of black and white pancake make-up during that zombie-like time period, I suspect I could’ve easily been cast as an extra in a remake of that movie. Then maybe I would’ve felt as though I had some true companions in my grief.

But the thing is, at least for me, I didn’t want companions in my grief. I wanted to be left alone with endless time to curl up in the fetal position and feel sorry for myself. I wanted to forego showers and combing my hair in favor of inane TV re-runs. In a perfect world, my grief would have been accompanied by decadent pastries and flaky pies; warm, yeasty fresh-baked breads and a bucket of butter, and gourmet pizzas oozing cheese and grease – all via unlimited deliveries to the front porch.

Scalloped potatoes, with or without ham, never gave me comfort. Even when they had that crispy topping of buttery corn flakes.

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. Matlock
This publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected
under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Suffering the Down in the Dumps followed with the Oh Poor Me's!

Is it just this time of year...when summer is slowly sliding into the small momentary melancholy of autumn that make the Down in the Dumps come to visit?

Is it the back-to-schools and the memories of all the other back-to-schools that make the Down in the Dumps want to live at my house?


Is it that lowering slant of the sun as it turns the afternoon light all buttery and golden that evokes ...


You know what?

I don't know what it is.

But I'm tired of it.

It can leave now.

Because, frankly, I'm getting sick of the Oh Poor Me's which seem to follow closely on the heels of the Down in the Dumps!

And I think Mr. Jenny is sick of them, too.

But that might just be the Oh Poor Me's talking.

I'm not totally sure, but let me give you an example.

"Do you want a latte from the coffee shop on the corner?" Mr. Jenny asked me.


"No, that's OK," I sniffed.

"What's wrong?" he queried patiently.

"I dunno. I just don't want coffee. Life is so meaningless, you know?"

"Hmmm?" he replied quizzically. "Do you want coffee or not?"

"No, that's OK," I say in a weak and pathetic voice, "I don't really deserve coffee...my life is kind of worthless, you know?"

"Hmmm?" he asks again, "Is that a yes or a no? I'm ready to leave now. Coffee or no coffee?"

"Did you ever realize how quickly time is passing and how quickly the Grands are growing up and weren't our kids just little yesterday and I have no idea what I'm doing with my life and..."

"Jenny," he says, much less patiently now, "Do you want a latte or not? I really need to go right now so I can get back in time for a phone call."

"That's OK. Never mind," I say in a pathetic, sad, little whining voice.

And I watch his car pull out of the garage. And come back about 10 minutes later.

And he walks by my office with a single cup of coffee in his hand and I say, "That was fast...where's MY coffee?"

And he kind of smirks at me. "What about your life being meaningless and all that stuff? I thought you said you didn't want coffee? You know you could totally make me crazy here!" he says, very clearly and slowly like he is talking to logic-impaired person.

"WHAT?" I shout. "THAT WAS JUST A TEST TO SEE IF YOU REALLY LOVED ME, which obviously you do not, or you would have gotten me a coffee, too. Just never mind!"

And then he walked back down the hall to the kitchen and came back with a second cup of coffee. For me.

"Just wondering if you really wanted this or not," he stated in a calm and rational voice.

And he then proceeded back to his own office which was a good thing because he barely escaped the death rays my glare was shooting his way.


Hmmm....

You know what?

I found a cure for suffering the Down in the Dumps and the Oh Poor Me's.

It is annoyance.

And irritation.

Yea.

Annoyance and irritation over-rides Down in the Dumps and Oh Poor Me's anyday of the week.

And death rays.

Death rays must somehow release the whole Down in the Dumps and the Oh Poor Me virus from your system.

Because I feel slightly better now.

AND at least he got my coffee order right!

I have to warn you, though. Any "poor guy", or "how does he stand you?" comments are certain to cause the virus to spread your way.

And I wouldn't want you to catch it, because frankly it stinks!

Sigh...

Saturday Centus - The Rest of the Story

Hi Centurians! Sorry I've been gone a bit lately. Have been actually dealing with a bunch of family drama AND sending stuff off to both publishers and agents. The only agent I've heard from so far said "Oh, you definitely need to find an agent that likes "Stream of Consciousness" stuff...but this was a good read." Hmmm... Allrighty then! But I am persistent with this idea...kind of pushing a different short story I wrote and some other writing contest entries!

So anyway...enough of this idle chit chat! I heard there was a tough assignment this week and I'm all over the whole idea!

This is my post for week 17 of the Saturday Centus..."rest of the story" assignment.

And Claudia...I hope you don't mind if I horn in your Summer Vacation 1964 post for to add on to. I really liked your take on it and the second I read it I wanted to tell the flip side.

So Claudia wrote this SC for week 16:

Freshman summer was not much different for best friend Dory and me. Waking in humid Kansas air, we helped our moms freeze strawberries, can tomatoes, or make jam before tanning on blankets or straddling bikes. We bowled bikes down gravel roads, munched chocolate in the cemetery, pulled romantic novels from cool library shelves and stopped at the Rexall for nickel cokes. There we lowered kick stands, tugged our madras shorts out of cracks, smoothed pony tails, and sauntered through the smacking screen door, catching sight of sweaty guys in plaid shirts, sleeves ripped out revealing hay bale-built biceps…um, good summer!

And...

Here is my "Rest of the story" coming in at exactly 100 words.

Junior year. Oh yeah.

Too much work baling hay and slaving on the farm. I wanted a job in town working at the Rexall. My Dad said no. Pulling nickel cokes is for sissies he said. Real men work on the farm.

I didn’t want to be a real man. I wanted to wear that snazzy white soda jockey jacket.

I wanted to watch pretty girls twirl around on the shiny red stools.

Madras shorts and pony tails.

And maybe a chance to swipe a flirt with Claudia. If she wasn’t too busy giggling with that annoying best friend Dory.

To read more "Rest of the Story" links...just click here!

Small Town Musings - Camp Grizzly

Mr. Jenny has been wanting to write creative stories for some time. He says he is "taking over" the Sunday spot on my blog and so we shall begin a new weekly feature here - Sundays with Steve. There will be a button and a tab eventually but for now just visit each Sunday to enjoy his words.

I disliked running, jogging, or any of those miles-long lung-burning exercises that others thought I should do to keep “in shape” or something equally foolish.

But that day I thought I was the bright one. While my group left for an afternoon run to the near-by Laird State Park then back to Camp Grizzly where our camp was, I volunteered to stay behind to build the fire in the old-fashioned water boiler, so all would have a nice hot shower when the run ended. They didn’t get a hot shower that day. And the afternoon run ended with me screaming “Fire!” and “Help!” into the camp.

Boy Scouts of America – scouting – occupied a central role in my developing years in our small town. It was an outside- of- school experience that had a large and positive influence on the kids who participated, and a lot did.

I was active in Boy Scouts starting in about the 4th grade through the 9thth grade, so about 10 years old through 15 or so -- certainly critical ages for developing young men.

Boy Scouts had ranks within its organization, with each rank achieved by accumulating merit badges. The badges were earned by learning, with some depth, certain skills or knowledge such as knot tying or first aid or swimming or life saving. Our group, Troup 158, had maybe 40 kids in it at any one time. We met each Monday night in the basement of the First Methodist Church on 7th Street. Every three months we had a “court of honor” where the mothers would bring covered dishes for a potluck supper and each Scout would be awarded the merit badges or new ranks earned during the period.


They did not have a merit badge in screaming for help or in yelling “fire!”, however.

The troop had weekend “camp-outs” through the school year at Camp Christy, named after our leader Roger Christy and located 30 miles southeast of town up in the mountains above Waha Lake. During the summers, the scout organization operated Camp Grizzly for all members in the region. If you wished, you could go to scout camp for a week.

There were other activities in scouts that we participated, activities that without scouting would have never happened: (We? Yes, always with younger brother David and a close group of scout friends.) The summer 12 of us from our small town took a chartered train with 300 other Scouts for a three week trip to Valley Forge, PA and a national “jamboree”; the Service Scouts experience where I became a tour guide for several weeks at the Seattle World’s Fair in 1964; and the failed attempt to visit Greece for a world scout gathering. But those are stories for another time.

Camp Grizzly (didn’t I tell you in another story that grizzly’s were native to North Idaho?) housed about 300 scouts at any one summer session. It was located 70 miles north of our small town of Lewiston, in the mountains and pine forests near Potlatch, Idaho.


The days were spent working on merit badges. There were week-long classes in preparing and cooking over an open wood fire using heavy iron pans and Dutch ovens, with the final examination being the preparation of a full meal for the rest of your group. We all passed the tests but I suspect that maybe we should not have. Two items of finite knowledge remain with me to this day from the cooking merit badge classes: Put soap on the outside of pan before you cook over the open fire, as it will make cleaning the pan much easier when you are done. And don’t leave soap in the pan after washing, as it will give you the runs.

There was a class every afternoon in water life-saving in the small lake bordering the camp – securing and pulling to safety drowning souls. I think I lived in that lake for most of the camp, and I became quite good at simulating the panicked drowning scout who did not want to be rescued by a clumsy boy.


There were numerous classes in first aid, map reading, hiking, canoeing, rock climbing, and much more. The classes and activities filled our days, leaving each of us exhausted at night.

Each troop had its own area inside the camp, a grouping of wood-floor tents and mildewing mattresses on the floor where you laid out your sleeping bag for the week. The tents were laid out so that they surrounded a fire ring where we could have evening camp fires.


Camp Grizzly had a cook house and dining hall that served three meals a day plus sack lunches for you to take on hikes or other out-of-camp activities. There was first aid shack where you could get a band aid if you needed it, a shower building where you could clean up, outhouses scattered here and there, the above mentioned lake with a life guard tower to watch after the swimmers, several small docks, and some racks to hold canoes.


The dining hall. Notice the bell in front. I rang it to alert the camp to the fire that was about to consume the shower house, which was to the left in this photo.

We cleaned the camp every morning after breakfast. The grounds were raked of all debris including pine needles and cones, a chore I never really understood as I was sure the needles and cones were a part of nature. I guess I was too “green” for the times, or maybe just a bit lazy. Sleeping bags were stowed, mattresses rolled-up, and lime was dumped into the outhouses holes (a disgusting job).

After a long day of activity, many of the older boys would take a run before dinner. I don’t remember why, but 20 or 25 would run the five miles to Laird Park and back, jump into the shower, and dress in clean cloths as if dinner in the creaky, old wooden dining hall was like eating out at the Ritz.

I ran a few days with the group. My lungs burned. My legs ached. But I had to be cool to stay with the group. What was I thinking? Geez. I had never liked running. In high school the mandatory laps were always the low point of PE. I preferred golf in the spring to track. Those daily two and five mile jogs while in Army later on in my life were never a great way to start the day. I must be have been fooling myself when I would meet up with a cousin when I was home from college for summers, for a daily morning run up each fairway at the neighboring golf course.

Three days of running with the Scouts at Camp Grizzly was enough silliness for me. On the fourth day I volunteered to generate the hot water for the showers everyone would be looking for 45 minutes later. The shower house was a small, self-contained wooden building in the center of the camp. It had maybe eight shower heads in a communal tiled room, and a changing room with hooks on the walls for clothes and benches to sit on. In one corner was an old metal contraption that looked like two rusted 50 gallon barrels laying horizontally, one on top of the other, with a stove pipe coming out the end of the bottom barrel and running straight to the roof. The bottom barrel contained the fire box, and the top contained the water to be heated. Pipes led from the water barrel through the fire box and then back, so that the fire heated and circulated the water.

That day I got the fire burning hot and fed it plenty of wood. The metal chimney was hot to the touch. Water was coming into the water barrel from an outside spring. All was well. At least for a while.

As the fire grew hotter, the metal creaked and groaned a bit. The water was warming nicely, and I could hear it circulating through the fire box.

I put another piece of chopped wood into the firebox and closed the door. Uh oh. As I closed the door on the bottom box the metal chimney fell out of the roof! It crashed to the floor. Smoke poured out of the fire box into the room, filling it very quickly. Flames were flying out of the fire box as well.

I used a towel to grab the metal chimney pipe and try to set it back on the firebox mounting. It wouldn’t fit. It fell over again. I started coughing violently from the smoke. I remember thinking, “Get out of there, Steve, quick”. Sparks began showering onto the wooden floor. I couldn’t see the ceiling through the thick smoke. I could not get that SOB pipe back into its fitting. My lungs started to burn just as badly as if I was on the run along with the other troop members. Right about then I started wishing I was.

“Give it up,” I told myself, and ran for the door. “Help!” I yelled as I ran outside, “Fire!” I saw the large bell in front of the dining hall that was used to summon the camp to meals. I ran for it, and rang it hard and loud to bring help. I was still coughing like crazy from the smoke. Even though I didn’t have time to panic, I did have time to wish I had gone running instead of staying behind and becoming a fool for burning down the shower house.

Help finally came. Even with smoke pouring out of the door and the windows, three adult leaders ran into the shower house. More adults arrived. The cook came out with a glass of water for me.

They got the stove pipe remounted and plugged back into the roof. Someone dumped water on the floor that had started to burn. The shower house was saved.

The cook told me to sit down and breathe deep to get the smoke out of my lungs. I did and felt better. I also felt embarrassed as hell, too. Geez, burn down the shower house why don’t you, Steve?!?

“No”, said the leaders, “It wasn’t you who tried to burn the shower house down.” The stove pipe had rusted through at the roof flange and had chosen that moment to collapse. It wasn’t my fault after all. Thank God, that was a close one.

We won the tug of war that year, dragging the opposing team of Scouts into the Palouse River that flowed alongside the camp.


The tug-of-war always ended the summer camp, and that year, it couldn’t have come sooner for me.

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. Matlock
This publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected
under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Saturday Centus - Ladies and Gentlemen...start your groans...

Welcome to week seventeen of Saturday Centus.

In case you've forgotten...

This is a themed writing meme.

Although each Saturday you are usually given a new "prompt" for the week, this week you will have an assignment rather than a prompt.

You have the entire week to link your work to the meme and you can link more than one story if you like.

Please display link button or just a hyper-link back to Saturday Centus. Be careful to link your SC URL to the Linky and not just link to your main blog.

I would suggest that since these are so short, if you can't think of a title just use your blog name as the title in the Linky.

Try to visit each one because they are tremendous and since they are so short they are definitely a quick read!

Please e-mail me directly with ???'s or ask your question in a comment and I will do my best to get back to you as soon as possible.

So, with no further ado here is the assigment for this week.

WEEK 17 ASSIGNMENT

Take any other SC stories (yours or someone elses) and using ANOTHER 100 WORDS...tell us the "rest of the story".

Please copy and paste the first story so we can read both entries easily.

So...

A 100 word story that tells the rest of any previous Saturday Centus!

This link will be live until next Saturday morning around 7 am. And please, remember to link to your SC URL...not your main blog. If you are unsure how to do this please leave me a message in the comments or e-mail me and I'll help you through it! Have fun!

"Being defeated is often a temporary condition...

Giving up is what makes it permanent.” Marilyn vos Savant



It has been one of those two steps forward, 1 7/8ths steps back kind of months. Or maybe it's actually been one of those years.

And I was thinking along these lines today when my phone rang.

At the end of the line I heard a hesitant young man.

And I said "hello" several times and finally he said, "Jenny?"

I replied somewhat impatiently, "Yes? Yes?" and there was another small pause.

And then he said, "Jenny, this is Corey."

And my heart just stopped.

After a moment of silence he asked quietly, "Are you there?"

And, again I hesitated.

The last time I saw this young man was some years ago. I saw him in an apartment he was being evicted from in the full throes of a hardcore heroin addiction.

His hair was stringy. His eyes were vacant. I could not look at him without wanting to scream or hit him.

I walked away from him. Steve walked away from him. I avoided his phone calls for a few months and then they stopped. I dismissed him from my mind certain he was dead of an over-dose. And the loss was not something I could even think of.

Corey entered Mr. Jenny's and my life a little over 10 years ago. Thrown out of his home by alcoholic and drug-addicted parents he was attempting to finish high school while living on the streets. A brilliant musician and an extremely intelligent young man, we saw him often at our home. He was a friend of our youngest daughters. And, boy, could that kid put away food. He managed to graduate from high school but his life was pretty bleak.

One day we decided to take him in. We told him our rules, bought him some clothes, and practiced interviewing so he could find a job.

He cleaned everything in sight, helped with dinner, ate like a starving truck-driver and took out the trash the second it was half-full.

We helped him find a job and eventually got him into a small apartment.

I remember very clearly taking him to Target and buying him jeans and shirts and socks and underwear. He was quiet and somber. And told me over and over again he would never be able to pay us back. We told him he could pay us back by making something of his life but he still kept careful track of each thing we bought for him. Each pair of socks. Each meal. Each piece of used furniture we purchased for that first apartment.

Mr. Jenny sat him down and told him as long as he made something of his life and graduated from college the debt would be written off.

He went on to graduate with honors from college.

We celebrated that event with dinner at a wonderful restaurant; tears flowed, hugs were shared and with great ceremony we tore up the papers recording the things we had bought.

We thought this young man was on a good road. He had stepped away from his family, seemed to be finding direction and was very focused on the future.

But then he fell.

And fell farther.

And fell harder.

And finally, when it seemed there was nowhere left to fall we severed the relationship with him. Dealing with our daughters addiction at the time was all we could try and manage.

It hurt my heart to think of another wonderful young person destroyed by the powerful allure of drugs when I allowed myself to think of it at all.

Until today.

"I have been clean and sober for over 2 1/2 years," he told me. "I am manager of a Taco Bell." And then he hesitated. "I have a son," he said quietly with a voice cracking with emotion, "He is four days old."

I started to cry.

He started to cry.

"I am so happy for you, Corey," I told him through my tears. "Keep going. You have to keep going."

He told me so many things for the next twenty minutes. There were tears. There were explanations. There were apologies. He said over and over again, "You two were the only ones who ever believed in me."

It was almost surreal.

At the end of the phone call I asked him, "Do you still like homemade macaroni and cheese?" and he started to cry again.

"I always loved everything you cooked," he said. "I haven't forgotten anything."

I told him when the baby was a bit older I wanted him to come with his wife and son to dinner. And I would cook enough to feed an army because I remember how much he ate.

I told him we would welcome him with open arms.

And that I was proud of him.

And that I was glad he had never given up on himself.

And after we hung up I sat where I had pulled off the road to talk to him for many long minutes.

The struggle for happiness is never really over, is it?

It is never over as long as there is breath in your body and the memory of something good in your life.

The struggle to believe in good, though, sometimes just feels too hard.

All those 1 7/8ths steps backward wear you down after awhile.

And I think you forget that it is still 1/8ths steps forward.

Life is a struggle.

Finding the good in things is a struggle.

Looking ahead with hope can feel like too much sometimes.

But really, isn't that all there is on all the 1 7/8ths steps back kind of months? On the 1 7/8ths steps back kind of years?

I have been thinking about Corey all day.

He faced one of the worst kind of struggles...and succeeded.

So who am I, really, to feel sorry for myself when even on the worst of days I am still stepping forward 1/8ths of a step.

It feels tiny, sometimes.

It feels like I am never going to get there.

Corey's journey opened my eyes.

And strengthened my resolve.

I am forging on...two steps forward and 1 7/8ths back!

I am not going to give up.

How can I when Corey didn't?

I'm looking forward to seeing this young man and his new family.

And I am looking forward to telling him that his call today helped me believe in myself.

And I'm looking forward to see if he can still eat like he used to.

I'm telling you. That was just a sight to behold.

PS. I was going to turn off comments for this post because I didn't tell you this story so you could say what good people Mr. Jenny and I are. We are all good people and try to do the right thing when we can. I decided to leave them on, though, because sometimes it's just nice to share how you feel.

Perfect iambic pentameter to celebrate the color BLUE!

...or not. Ahemmmm......




Used to be, on a hot day of summer,
Or I just might remember it so...
Kid's would play in blue rivers and
lakes...don't you know?

But here in the desert
When it rains it's a treat!
Since no blue water is close
Children play in the streets.





On Tuesday night we had a torrential downpour. Mr. Jenny and I went outside to watch it rain. We could hear kids yelling and screaming in the distance so we walked up the corner and saw these neighbor kids getting cars to splash them!

This little ditty is linked to Rainbow Summer School's color BLUE! Click here to read more odes to this refreshing color.

Alphabe-Thursdays Rainbow Summer School

Good morning class! Welcome to week five of our Rainbow Summer School. This week will be focused on:

Your link this week can consist of anything that relates to the color blue in any way, shape or form!

The next color we will be doing is INDIGO!

AND...

I did a little surprise drawing from the GREEN links last week and will be awarding a GREEN prize to the winner.

True Random Number Generator

Min: 1
Max: 73
Result: 3

Link 3 was this one from JDanielsMom!

It is just a little surprise - nothing major - but if you e-mail me your address JDanielsMom, I'll get your GREEN prize in the mail to you this week. (jennymatlock at cox dot net)

NEXT:

Let's try something different on visiting this week. Try to visit the five links before and after your link and leave a comment. Minimum of 10 links visited please. You can certainly visit more. Just because it's "Summer School" doesn't get you out of this fun homework!

I also want to let you know that each week I visit every blog. I noticed a blog today where my comment didn't show up. If it appears I haven't visited your blog by Monday night, please let me know, because it is important to me to make sure you know I've visited you! There were several blogs I could not get onto last week. I'm hoping that problem is straightened out this week.

If you have any difficulties with your link please make sure to include the number of the link when you e-mail me. It is really difficult for me to find them otherwise.

If you have any questions about Alphabe-Thursday or problems doing your link just post it in a comment or send me an e-mail. I'll do my best to help you.

The McLinkey will be live from 6:00 pm MST time Wednesday night through 8:00 am MST time Friday morning!

And remember.... link back to this post, you need to be registered as a follower of my blog, PG posts only, and try to visit the 5 students before and after your post at minimum. The links will stay live after the final post deadline has passed so you can even wait and visit over the weekend or whenever you have more time.

Class is dismissed. Please feel free to post your Rainbow Summer School link now for the color BLUE:

Lions and tigers and bugs...oh my!

You know the movie the Wizard of Oz, right?

I encountered something almost as scary as the lions and tigers this morning about 4:00 am.

There I was, sound asleep, dreaming about rainbow colored puppies and sparkling pink unicorns (hmmm....wait...that would be me dreaming vicariously through my four year old Granddaughter, Morgan)...

OK.

There I was, sound asleep dreaming about...

You know what?

It doesn't matter what I was dreaming about.

I turned over in the bed and felt a vicious bite on my ...ummm.... nether region.
I leaped out of bed screaming "There's a bug in the bed! There's a bug in the bed!" and Mr. Jenny very slowly turned the light on and got out of bed to see what was happening. You'd think he I had awaked him from a sound sleep or something...geez....

He put his glasses on and looked around the bed. He squinted. And finally he found something about the size of this





.





in the middle of our great big California King sized bed.

He said, "Geez, talk about over-reacting. The bug is only this big







.






in the middle of our great big California King sized bed.

I put my glasses on.

This is what I saw!


Needless to say, I never went back to sleep.

Just thought I'd share this little story with you.

...

...

Ummm....

You're welcome.

And...ummm...

This bug story made me think of this really cool deal that Penny Pinching Pixie had on her blog yesterday for Restaurant.com gift certificates at incredible savings. Maybe I should send Mr. Jenny this link so he can buy one to take me out to apologize for not being sympathic about the giant, vicious bug.

Go look at it, though. There were some great restaurants in my zip code. Just click here to see the link I'm talking about!

An Alphabe-Thursday Uh-OH!

Man oh man! I am a bad meme administrator.

But shhhh.... don't tell Coralie and she will never know that I TOTALLY FORGOT TO LINK HER GREEN POST UP THIS WEEK! She's at a wedding and I assured her I would remember but, yea...ummm... I didn't.

So...

Pretty, pretty please click here to read Coralie's Green post for Rainbow Summer School.

And, hey, while you are at it, visit a few of the other last links. They hardly had any visitors this week!

Oh, and ummm.... Coralie? If you're reading this.

I will use one of my most common phrases I hear of late expressing feelings of true remorse.

MY BAD!!!!!!

Yikes. That hurt to even write that. I shudder at those non-sincere words whenever I hear them. And then I generally want to say "apology NOT accepted"!

So, Coralie, let me try again.

I'm sorry.

And I remembered this at 5:00 am so now I fixed it I'm going back to bed.

MY BED!!!!!!!!!

hee hee!

Story Time Tuesday - Chapter 19 - THE END!

If you missed TALES FROM HOME - Chapter 18 just click here to read it.


TALES FROM HOME - Chapter Nineteen

As Julia thrashed about in worry, her sisters gathered around her in fear.

“Julia, we’re here! We’re here!” they murmured to her, while patting her hands and stroking her hair.

Julia’s eyes remained tightly closed as tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Julia, please wake up. Wake up!” her sisters cried.

Riley’s gray-blue eyes met Morgan’s dark blue ones in shared concern. Is there anything more distressing than discovering that love is not always enough to comfort someone you care for?

Julia’s eyes remained tightly closed and she continued to whisper through her tears. “I promise I’ll find enough food. I promise I will keep you warm and safe. I promise…”

Riley could not stand to watch her sister suffer. “Morgan, get Julia’s treasure rock. Hurry! Hurry!”

Morgan quickly looked on the cluttered marble top of the small dresser. Finally her shaking fingers found the heart-shaped rock. The polished, smooth surface gleamed in the room’s dim light. The gold, amber and purple ribbons of color seemed to glow in Morgan’s hand.

She hurriedly carried it to the side of the bed where Riley was busy tucking the soft, worn quilt more closely around her sister’s thin, freckled shoulders.

Without a word, she pressed the warm stone into Julia’s hand and tightened her fingers around it.

For a moment nothing happened.

And then Julia stopped crying.

Her whispers quieted.

She lay still beneath the peaceful comfort of the old pink, purple and green quilt.

Her sisters looked at her fragile hand clenched tightly around the heart-shaped memory.

And then, very slowly, Julia opened her faded blue eyes.

Her sweet face, now freckled with age spots, lit up when she saw her sisters gathered around her.

The small, quiet room in the nursing home was filled with her treasures and crowded with her memories.

In the thin wavering voice of an old woman, Julia said, “Riley? Morgan? Do you remember…

At the edge of a pond…

At the edge of a woods…

At the edge of a mountain…

Where the happy little house stood?”


THE END

A new story, "Writing Fiction" starts next week

Thank you. When I committed to writing a continuous story on a weekly basis I was a little unsure of the whole process. But all your kind comments and support really made this a fun thing to do.

This little story ended up so far from where I had planned it to go. Often I fought against the words in my head trying to make it stick to the outline...but finally I just gave up and let it wander where it would.

I am starting a much longer story now. I like the beginning but I am only two chapters in so I'm not sure where it is going. But I hope you continue to read along with me.

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. Matlock
This publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected
under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

The sunset caught me, turned the brush to copper,

set the clouds to one great roof of flame above the earth.” Elizabeth Coatsworth


We drove some evenings back on empty roads through rolling hillsides, freshened by monsoon rains. The desert sparkled a bit with rain, the Eastern horizon grew dark and velvetty and oh, the Western sky.

The clouds glowed with colors and the sky changed and shifted with the breezes so that each moment seemed more amazing then the last.

We drove like that for awhile and then passed through Florence.

I wonder if the prisoners can see out of their cells? I wonder if they can still be moved by the grandeur of so much beauty? I wonder if the sunset inspires them as it does me...to make my life count...moment by moment by moment?

I'm not sure why I thought about those prisoners so much. But I did. The thoughts made me both sad and hopeful.

And it also made me wonder why everyone wasn't pulled over beside the road rejoicing in a sky such as this.

As we did.

In the creosote-scented fresh desert air driving home from Tucson.

Small Town Musings III

Mr. Jenny has been wanting to write creative stories for some time. He says he is "taking over" the Sunday spot on my blog and so we shall begin a new weekly feature here - Sundays with Steve. There will be a button and a tab eventually but for now just visit each Sunday to enjoy his words.

“Why do you suppose they call this town, Tucannon?” Mr. Streiff asked.

A tiny town in Southeast Washington State, no, not even a tiny town, it was a wide spot in the road.

John Streiff, aged early-50s, bald as a billiard ball, a bit grumpy to many, was warm and humorous to me, and was the father of one of my best friends, Fritz. He was the husband of the best maker and baker of lemon meringue pies, ever, until I met, fell in love with, and married Mrs. Steve 40 years later.

We had stopped at the general store in Tucannon that spring morning -- the only store in Tucannon -- for a soda break just 50 miles or so after leaving home at Lewiston.

The three of us – John, Fritz, and I spent time in those years exploring our region. Mr. Streiff was as curious and fascinated by the world around him as any adult in my life, and with that bald head framed by wire-rimmed glasses (wire-rimmed glasses were only worn by very old people then, they were not popular as they are today), I thought that Mr. Streiff was hugely intelligent.

Fritz Streiff was my age, and lived a few blocks away on 16th Avenue, a 10-minute walk or a 3 minute bike ride. We became friends in kindergarten, and closest friends in grade school and junior high years. Our interests went different ways in high school and college. He went on to graduate from Harvard, then to a Paris cooking school and back for an internship with Julia Child in Boston in the 1970s. The last I heard, Fritz was cooing at a French restaurant in the Bay Area and I see on Google that he’s co-authored a couple of cookbooks (Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook, and Chez Panisse Fruit.)

I kept close to his parents and his father until Mr. Streiff’s death in the late 1970's.

“Why this is called Tucannon?” Mr. Streiff asked again. “Well,” when neither Fritz nor I could come up with the correct answer, “It is because of the two cannons kept here during the Indian wars.” Groan. It was a totally made up story that kept us laughing for several minutes, and one I remember 50 years later.

We stopped at the next burg, a big bigger burg named Starbuck, population 50 maybe, and picked up the weekly newspaper. The lead headline was “Dog sits on porch, eats licorice.” We all groaned, and then laughed for the rest of the day (and I’ve been using that headline as an example of bad headline writing and as a bad story selection, ever since, and I still chuckle over it). Starbuck, Washington was the name of the town, some 25 years before the famous Starbucks Coffee was founded 150 miles away in Seattle -- I wonder if there was a connection.

Did I mention that a neighboring town to the north is named Dusty? That kind of described this whole arid region of eastern Washington State.

We were on our way to Palouse Falls that day, a basalt catch basin that the Palouse river drops into, as it flows to the Snake River, 6-more miles downstream.


“Don’t be afraid of this,” said John, “it’s a pull ferry to cross the river.”


It scared the hell out of me. It looked and felt like the ferry in the photo above.

We had to cross the Snake River in order to reach Palouse Falls, and the place to cross was appropriately named Lyon’s Ferry. There were no bridges for miles in any direction. There was nothing for miles in any direction. There was a broken-down raft large enough for two cars that was connected to a steel cable the spanned the ½ mile wide river. There was no motor on this raft. I couldn’t figure out how the raft propelled itself to the other side. But more, the raft looked half-sunk, and I was quite worried it would become fully sunk on our crossing.


“I’m not riding in the car when it drives onto that raft,” I thought, “And I am not going down with this ship!” I got out of the car, and watched with held breath.

John Streiff and his wife Eleanor lived in the Seattle, Washington area during the WWII years. He was an aircraft engineer for Boeing, she a stay-at-home mom giving birth to three daughters and son Fritz through that decade. Eleanor was born in our home town of Lewiston, and her father owned and operated the local Allis-Chalmers farm implement store. Her parents lived in a stone house ½ block from my grandmother. The store sold big tractors and grain combines, cultivators, seeders, and farm clothing. It was never a particularly prosperous business, and year after year its fortunes depended on the price of wheat – the higher the price, the more the farmers had to spend.

When Eleanor’s father died in the late 1940s, she and John decided to come home to continue the business. Reluctantly, they relocated from Seattle to Lewiston, and John, even more reluctantly, started life as a small businessman, an occupation he mostly hated the rest of his career.

John’s passions were his children, and Fritz, his only son, and Fritz’s best friend Steve, were the recipients of that passion for years. The other passions included his huge collection of classical music that always filled his home on Sundays, his large stinky cigars, and his occasional glass of imported red wine.

Which brings back us to Lyon’s Ferry and its sinking ferry.

John slowly inched the car, a 1960 Ford Falcon Ranchero (a classic car now, a piece of junk then) over wooden planks and onto the ferry. The ferry groaned. It dipped down a bit as the front wheels touched the wooden deck. I held my breath, sure the boat was going to sink right, there tied to the shore.


The ferry held, I don’t know how, but it did. John pulled the car to the edge of the ferry and parked it. Another car followed onto the ferry, and the big raft groaned, dipped, and then accepted its load. I was amazed; it was still floating.

Then I gently walked on to the ferry, it didn’t groan or dip, thank God.

We sat on the hood of the car as the ferry “master” pushed the raft into the current, using a long pole to nudge the craft just a few feet into the stream. The raft was latched with pulleys to a steel cable that spanned the river. As soon as the raft hit the current near the shore, the river pulled the raft across, following the cable. It was a scary and fun crossing, a slight breeze in the face, water lapping over the front boards just a bit; although I continued to wait for the ferry to suddenly sink. It did not.

Today there is a large bridge crossing the river there, plus a railroad bridge, a park, a marina, a store, it seems a very busy place. The fast moving current of the river is gone, backed-up by one of the Snake River dams downstream, that turned the river into a large lake. The ferry is still there, to my surprise, as a museum piece in the Lyon’s Ferry State Park. I was amazed by that, I was sure that it had sunk a long, long time ago.


Eleanor Streiff welcomed us home later that day, as she always did when her explorers returned safely. Eleanor, by the way, all five foot, two inches of her, was one of the most delightful people alive. With short black hair, half-glasses on her nose, often a cigarette in her hand (the last time I saw her, in the late 1980s, she said “I’ve been smoking all my life, and it hasn’t hurt me yet”), a miniature dachshund always close by, she was the model mom that always took care of her daughters, her Fritz, and Steve. She was kind, caring, intelligent, and like her husband, hugely curious about the world around her, and the people in it. And she made the 2nd best lemon meringue pie in the world!

(c) 2010 Jennifer R. Matlock
This publication is the exclusive property of Jennifer R. Matlock and is protected
under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws. The contents of this post/story may not be reproduced as a whole or in part, by any means whatsoever, without consent of the author, Jennifer R. Matlock. All rights reserved.

Saturday Centus - Week 16

Welcome to week sixteen of Saturday Centus.

In case you've forgotten...

This is a themed writing meme.

Each Saturday you will be giving a new "prompt" for the week and you have the entire week to link your work to the meme and you can link more than one story if you like.

Please display link button or just a hyper-link back to Saturday Centus. Be careful to link your SC URL to the Linky and not just link to your main blog.

I would suggest that since these are so short, if you can't think of a title just use your blog name as the title in the Linky.

Try to visit each one because they are tremendous and since they are so short they are definitely a quick read!

Please e-mail me directly with ???'s or ask your question in a comment and I will do my best to get back to you as soon as possible.

Since it is back to school time, we are going to do something little different this week.

WEEK 16 ASSIGNMENT

Do you remember how during the first week back at school the teacher would make you write an essay about what you did over your summer vacation? Well, school has been in session almost two weeks here so I thought we'd try this for something different.

Your story must be written in first person AND must be exactly 100 words long. It can be fact or fiction.

So...

Exactly 100 words, first person, fact or fiction...What I did over my Summer Vacation. AND What I did over my Summer Vacation is the title of your essay not to be included in the 100 words!

This link will be live until next Saturday morning around 7 am. And please, remember to link to your SC URL...not your main blog. If you are unsure how to do this please leave me a message in the comments or e-mail me and I'll help you through it! Have fun!

So...do you wanna eat a cupcake?

Then we can be even and you, too, can gain 4 1/2 pounds from eating two of them.

That's what friends are for.

And...

You're welcome.

This is going to be long because I have a lot of pictures so I'm hardly going to write any extra words.

Sorry.

I just don't want you to get readers cramp from too much blah, blah, blah.

OK. Ready?

For the cupcake part...just make your favorite vanilla cupcake but instead of using vanilla extract use the beans from two vanilla pods. Or just use vanilla. I don't know if the beans are technically important but I like the little flecks of it in there.

Fill the cupcake pans a little fuller than usual. Use the paper cupcake liner thing-ys (yes, that is the correct term) but to make them easier to get out and clean up after I usually spray the whole top of the cupcake tin with pam before I put the papers in. This is a great tip to try if you don't already do it. Those baked on drips really come off quickly. My recipe only makes 12 cupcakes so the quantity of icing and simple syrup is based on 12 cupcakes. If you use a boxed mix (24 cupcakes) double everything.


While the cupcakes are baking let's make the simple syrup.

In a saucepan boil together 1 cup of water and 3/4 cup of granulated white sugar. Boil for 3 or 4 minutes until it is thickened slightly. Remove from heat and stir in 1 teaspoon of fresh lemon juice and 1 teaspoon of vanilla. Set this aside for now. You can use that fake lemon stuff if you don't have real but don't tell Martha Stewart I said it was OK. I will deny it if you do!


Moving on to the frosting now.

Don't forget your cupcakes, though. Be sure they aren't burning.

My Grandmother always made this frosting and called it Wallpaper Paste Icing. It's a weird recipe but the frosting is really light and creamy and yummy.

So to make it here's what you need:

6 tablespoons of flour
1 cup ofmilk
1 cup of granulated "real" sugar
1 cup of room temperature butter
2 teaspoons of vanilla extract

The first think you do is whisk the flour and the milk together. This is not going to look very tasty at this point but don't worry.


Keep stirring this with your whisk over medium heat very carefully. Don't leave it alone because it will burn. Whisk, whisk, whisk. I'm sorry if your arm is getting tired but whisk, whisk, whisk. Don't forget to check your cupcakes. Whisk, whisk, whisk.


It is going to get really, really thick. Like super thick pudding. When you are whisking you will be able to see the bottom of the pan because it will be so thick it will pull away. When that happens, whisk it about 30 seconds more. It will be super thick and not look very icing like at this point. Don't burn your cupcakes!


Dump the floury stuff mess into a wire strainer that you have placed over a bowl.




Smoosh the floury stuff mess through the strainer with the back of a spatula. It's going to be weird. Keep scraping the flour stuff mess off the bottom of the strainer with a table knife. When you're all done smooshing you will have a bowl full of smooth, floury thick white stuff. Put it in the refrigerator. Cupcakes?

Can you multi-task?

Because I have to skip around now because we are waiting for the smooth, flour thick white stuff to get cold before we can finish our icing.

In the meantime, throw the 1 cup of of room temperature butter and the 1 cup of granulated sugar in the mixing bowl. Mix the heck out of it. Keep scraping down the sides. Mix, mix, mix. Scrape down the sides. Mix, mix, mix. Mix this for 5 or 6 minutes. You have to wait for the smooth, floury thick white stuff to get cold anyway. Mix, mix mix. Since you've been mixing a long time now your cupcakes should be out of the oven and cooling.


Now dump the cold smooth, floury thick white stuff into the mixture with the beat-to-heck butter and granulated sugar.


Mix, mix, mix. On high. For a long time. Like 6 - 8 minutes long. Scrape the side of the bowl down. Mix, mix, mix. It might look curdled for a little bit but that's OK. Just keep mix, mix, mixing. Dump the 2 teaspoons of vanilla in there.


And after you mix, mix, mix just a little bit more you will have this bowl of fluffy, not-too-sweet, really delicious icing. Oh man. Where is a spoon when you need it?


And now we are ready to assemble our cupcakes in a jar. Your jars should have been washed and dried. I didn't say this earlier but you probably already knew this. And make sure the jars are empty. Don't put the cupcakes in there with a few left-over pickles. But you know this stuff already. Right?

Peel the papers off the cooled cupcakes.

Get out some preserves or lemon curd. I'm using apricot jam here but you can use strawberry, blackberry, blueberry, raspberry, lemon curd, lime curd...anything at all you like.

So.

In the bottom of the glass jar drop a little spoon of the icing. You can use a piping tip but when I took these pictures my kitchen was really hot and the frosting wasn't quite stiff enough.

Then drop in a little spoonful of whatever preserves you like.


Now dip the bottom of your cupcake quickly into your cooled sugar syrup.



And then gently put it into the jar. The cupcake should be facing up, just like when you bake it.


Drizzle a little of the sugar syrup over the top of the cupcake.


Spread another small spoonful of preserves over the top of the cupcake.



And lastly pipe in more icing to the top of the jar. I try to spread it to the whole edge of the glass all the way around.

And, voila!, three varieties of cupcakes...raspberry, lemon curd and apricot.


If you are giving a cupcake for a gift, you can put a little label on the top, tie a ribbon around it twisted around a plastic spoon.

But...

I had to take this basket somewhere so I didn't have time to show you that, but you can figure it out, I'm sure.


And look how cute they are?

Geez.

I'm exhausted.

How do food bloggers do this?

I could have written 10 normal strange posts in the time it took to do this one.

But that's OK.

Because what are friends for?

I'm just trying to be nice sharing my recipe here, really.

I'm not trying to make YOU gain 4 1/2 pounds, too.

Geez. What kind of a person do you think I am? I was only kidding when I wrote that earlier.

Sigh...

PS. If you have any ???'s, e-mail me and I will try and clarify. I tried first baking the cupcake in the jar but it looked all icky in there and you can't get preserves or sugar syrup underneath. The sugar syrup is to keep the cupcake really moist. And I'm not sure why but it is really fun to eat these out of the jar. It feels like your own personal celebration or something!

Rainbow Summer School - Green!

You can click on this picture in order to fully appreciate the time and effort that went into making this artistic creation!

Loretta at Short and Sweet is having the calling hours for her Mom this evening with burial service tomorrow. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. If you want to leave a comment on her memorial post for her Mom, that would be great. Even if you left one before it would be nice to leave another one today! Just click here to go to it.

Sue and other Alphabe-Thursday friends, I'm sorry I didn't think of doing this type of memorial during your losses. I'm a dork sometimes.

And my silly picture above is linked to Alphabe-Thursday's Rainbow Summer School. To read other GREEN posts, just click here!

Alphabet-Thursday's Rainbow Summer School

Good morning class! Welcome to week one of our Rainbow Summer School. This week will be focused on:

Your link this week can consist of anything that relates to the color green in any way, shape or form!

The next color we will be doing is BLUE!

AND...

I did a little surprise drawing from the YELLOW links last week and will be awarding a YELLOW prize to the winner.

True Random Number Generator

Min: 1
Max: 82
Result: 66

Link 66 was this one from Vanessa at Southern in my Heart!

It is just a little surprise - nothing major - but if you e-mail me your address Vanessa, I'll get your YELLOW prize in the mail to you this week. (jennymatlock at cox dot net)

NEXT:

Let's try something different on visiting this week. Try to visit the five links before and after your link and leave a comment. Minimum of 10 links visited please. You can certainly visit more. Just because it's "Summer School" doesn't get you out of this fun homework!

I also want to let you know that each week I visit every blog. I noticed a blog today where my comment didn't show up. If it appears I haven't visited your blog by Monday night, please let me know, because it is important to me to make sure you know I've visited you! There were several blogs I could not get onto last week. I'm hoping that problem is straightened out this week.

If you have any difficulties with your link please make sure to include the number of the link when you e-mail me. It is really difficult for me to find them otherwise.

If you have any questions about Alphabe-Thursday or problems doing your link just post it in a comment or send me an e-mail. I'll do my best to help you.

The McLinkey will be live from 6:00 pm MST time Wednesday night through 8:00 am MST time Friday morning!

And remember.... link back to this post, you need to be registered as a follower of my blog, PG posts only, and try to visit the 5 students before and after your post at minimum. The links will stay live after the final post deadline has passed so you can even wait and visit over the weekend or whenever you have more time.

Class is dismissed. Please feel free to post your Rainbow Summer School link now for the color GREEN: