I will gorge myself with feathers
to be light upon my feet
as I traipse across the foothills
shaking every paw I meet
I will stroke the furs with touches
soft and kind will be my voice
as I offer safety, comfort
and a reason to rejoice
But one specific fellow waits
to be uncaged, set free
my precious friend, I’ll be there soon
both rescued, you and me.
For my sweet Cole – a mini-Aussie current with his vaccines – who was sent to quarantine for nipping the Fed-Ex man on our property.
via Gorge
Sometimes, when your hands are tied with knots you can’t undo,
your only choice is to wait patiently.
Sometimes, you may be able to loosen those ties that bind
and make a choice.
Think through the difficult choices
and make the decision with certain serenity.
via Serene
Back then, I waited on pins and needles. Not “tenterhooks”.
I’d never heard of such a word.
When I was a youngster, the big stress of Christmas was waiting.
Waiting to put up the tree.
Waiting to to see the traditional lighted candy canes line the neighborhood streets.
Waiting on Christmas Eve to spot Santa in the sky as my sister pointed.
Waiting to get home from Christmas Eve services to open presents.
Back then, the magic simply happened.
Beginning around 3 or 4 decades ago, it was I who became the magician, the puppeteer, the puller of strings to recreate a tradition.
Today, the magic for me is seeing the joy, the excitement and the sparkle of light in my grandchildren’s eyes as they witness the marvel of Christmas as it “simply” happens.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the inspirational news article written in 1897, please read, Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
photo credit
via Tenterhooks
Dad’s ignoring me as usual, but I guess that’s better than a slap on my face. Mother dries off the breakfast skillet, picks up a fussy Delma, and says, “Cono, yer goin’ te town this weekend te sleep over at Mamaw’s.”
“How come?” I ask.
“Aunt Marguerite and Aunt Eva are there. They wanna see ye.”
Well, I can see all the way down to the truth, and it feels like I’ve swallered a ratt’ler. Dad’s still mad that I’d bitten that toothbrush in two and doesn’t want me around. I don’t want to be around him either.
Still, I don’t want to go. I like Dad’s sisters well enough, but I want to stay here with baby Delma.
Mamaw, Dad’s mother, is the toughest grandma I know. It would be a whole lot easier if I just ran away and caught a train to somewhere else. As I sit on that idea like a chicken warming her eggs. I decide against it. Everybody says that the trains are filled with starving hobos on their way to California. They say they like to eat children under the age of twelve. I’m afraid they’d eat me too even though I’m little and skinny.
I guess I have to go.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper
via Age
photo credit
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 