The Friendship Garden: Marigold and Violet

The twilight was illuminating in the distance while I faced west toward the water. It had a subtle glow with red streaks across the sky that slowly moved down into the horizon. I balanced myself on the large rock that stood in the center of a small pool of water. The tiny canals that circled the rock were dug earlier in the day by a group of kids. It was a beautiful night, one to remember.

Today was also the first anniversary of my best friend passing from this life to the next. I was here at the beach remembering her life and our life as best friends forever (BFF). We were two inseparable twins from different parents who thought we would both grow old together while celebrating all the marriage milestones to our future spouses, children, birthday parties, and everything in between. I was here to celebrate her and toast to her memory.

I sat down on the rock, reached into my shoulder bag, and pulled out a large bottle of red wine. It was her favorite. We would come to this beach a lot while growing up and when we were finally able to drink, we would buy the wine and sit on this ancient rock and talk about our plans in life. We both knew what we wanted and pledged not to do anything without each other in our life. We were sisters, not by blood, but by bond.

I raised my glass after pouring a full one and toasted out loud to Marigold Nevaeh Martin! People, even her parents, called her Mari except for me. I always said she was the flower in my life, and I called her by her given name, Marigold. We often joked that the flower smelled terrible, but the bloom was beautiful like her. She had flaming red hair, so it was a perfect name. My name, on the other hand, was not as unique. It was Caren. Always mispronounced and spelled with a k instead of a c, so Marigold renamed me. I became a flower and our friendship a garden. I was no longer called Caren by her, but instead, she renamed me, Violet.

As I sat on the rock and drank my first of several glasses of wine, my mind flooded with memories. We lived down the street from each other, only a few blocks from the beach in Seattle, Washington. We went to daycare as infants together, then all through school until we graduated from the same University. It was bizarre to some but natural for us. We even majored in the same field of criminal justice. The only difference is she became a police officer, and I became a corporate paralegal.

Marigold's middle name was Neveah, which is heaven spelled backward. It fit her perfectly, and it was symbolic of another difference we didn't share. As I sat on the rock and shared my thoughts with her, I knew where she was. You see, she believed in something more than what we see in this life, yet I didn't. Well…I didn't until that awful night.

Marigold had been on patrol one dark moonless night and spotted a stranded motorist on the freeway. She had made sure to secure the area with flares and her patrol car lights, but even with that, it didn't stop the speeding car from barreling toward them. In a flash of just mere seconds, she pushed a young mother who was the car's driver into a ditch and took the hit head-on. Marigold was gone instantly. She didn't suffer at all. I always knew she would practice what she preached, "There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends." At work and in her personal life, she was everyone's friend. She always treated people she arrested with respect. She disapproved of their crimes, but she wasn't there to be their judge and jury.

So I lifted high the last glass of red wine with my arm outstretched toward the horizon and toasted my BFF while the light of the moon silhouetted me. I know now that I will see her again, and that is what consoles me. That is what I know to be true.

Matthew 5:9 "Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.

 

The Voice from the Deep: Finding Love & Life

Photo credit: Carol Eliassen

It was a sunny day as usual in Pismo Beach, California, when I decided to go swimming after walking the long white sandy beach. The waves were coming in slowly, along with a light breeze. I had picked a perfect day to hang out at the beach, take in the sights and fresh saltwater ocean air.

While walking along the shoreline, I literally stumbled upon Emma. She was a local college student from San Francisco and was just on a day trip to the beach. She had driven down with friends, but they had insisted on shopping, and all she wanted to do was enjoy being lazy on the beach as she worked on her tan.

I had just dined at a local bar and grill across the street that had a great view of the water. The shrimp, cod, and crab were the best I had ever eaten, but the drinks made me a little wobbly while trying to navigate the deep white sand. When I stumbled upon Emma, which I did, we hit it off after I kept apologizing profusely.

I wasn’t known for college life. I was a helicopter mechanic in the aviation field, so we seemed to have such different lives. She was majoring in interior design, and I wanted to live a fun life after working 60 hours a week or more. I had no ambition, no goals, living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe that was my goal in life?

She didn’t seem judgmental, and she had a charm to her that was quite perky and cute. I thought that just because we are different doesn’t mean we couldn’t have a good time today. She was currently alone, and so was I. There weren’t many people on shore since it was still early in the day, so we hung out and got to know each other.

I tried to convince her to go swimming, but she confessed that she didn’t know how to swim. She was born and raised in San Francisco but never had a desire to learn, and her parents never sent her to swim classes. I told her I could be her instructor if we kept in touch. I could only hope for that. She never actually took me up on the offer but I could tell she was intrigued.

I hung out with her until her friends showed up, and we exchanged phone numbers and said our goodbyes. I was pretty sure I would never hear from her again. We were from two different worlds and had two different goals (or lack of goals) that didn’t match in life. It was nice to make a friend, even only for a day!

I finally got up the courage to wade in, and as the seawater splash up against my leg, I proceeded to dive into a wave that came towards me. I managed to swim out into the ocean water a reasonable distance from shore and then dove down again into the murky water.

This time it was different. When I went under, I thought I would come right back up; I immediately realized I was in trouble. I didn’t know which way was up because I had flipped around as I went below the surface. I kept telling myself, “Eli, you got this, don’t panic!” Not that I ever listened to myself, because I started to panic, then I began to pray.

A voice, not my own, more precise than the voice in my head, told me to swirl around while pushing myself to what I thought maybe down to the bottom of the ocean and then to push myself up with force. I did just that and managed to come out of the water. What was only a few minutes, while holding my breath, seemed like an eternity; I escaped certain death. If I had not listened to this voice and did just as instructed, I was sure to have died that day.

Well, much to my chagrin, today wasn’t over yet because I was still a pretty good distance from shore. I must have also been in a rip current because I could see the shoreline passing by at a fast pace as I moved further down the beach, not of my own accord. I knew not to panic but couldn’t help it when I spotted a dogfish shark. I could tell it was that type of shark by the two smooth dorsal fins gliding through the water directly in my current path. It wasn’t moving toward me, but I seemed to be getting closer to it. I started swimming as fast as possible with the rip current but at an angle toward the shore and just managed to break free. I quickly made my way to the beach. I threw myself on the soft sand and was thankful to be alive!

As I turned over and stared up into the sun, Emma stood and smiled down at me. Maybe there is a God? I certainly think so.

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.

George's Bakery - Chocolate Death Cake

 

Chocolate Death Cake

George…just George. What a George he was. He never knew a cake he didn’t like or cookie, for that matter. I knew George well. He was quite a tall, lanky, handsome fellow who loved to bake. Growing up and looking at him, I always thought that he would be a perfect mortician because he looked like Mr. Fletcher, the local one in town. Thin and bony he was too. Aren’t all morticians tall and spindly? Well, I thought they were. I shouldn’t have stereotyped him at all because he became a Baker! Well, I won’t tell you how I envisioned all Bakers. That will be my little secret. Again, I was wrong, thanks to George.

Let’s get back to George the Baker. He was a friend of the family, and most called him Uncle George, except for me. I knew he wasn’t my uncle, and since we were so close in age, I never called him that. Everyone thought that was odd, but I just liked calling him by his name. I loved that name and even named my firstborn son George. It was not because George was my favorite person (which he was); I just liked the name. I would have liked to have been named George, but my parents named me Ellison and called me by my nickname Eli.

George couldn’t wait to open up his bakery as soon as he could so he did when he turned eighteen. He had saved up all his money from mowing yards in the neighborhood and having a paper route as soon as he got his first bike when he was six years old. George was the star of the town everywhere he went. He loved people, and people loved our dear George. The bakery was a smash hit when it opened, and George always greeted everyone each day with his big famous crooked smile. He would be up at 3 a.m. and in the kitchen at his shop by 4 a.m. He never missed a day. You could smell the freshly baked cinnamon buns throughout every corner of the small town.

George wasn’t married, and as far as I knew, he never had a girlfriend while growing up. He lived to bake, and that was his absolute passion in life. George’s parents had died when he was very young from a tragic plane crash, and he went to live with his Aunt Anne, who happened to be my mother’s sister. Aunt Anne had married the brother of George’s dad and was a widow soon after. She never had children or remarried, so having George was her little blessing. She doted on him yet taught him to be a hard worker and perfected his skills in baking. Aunt Anne was like a life raft for George when he needed it most. With both his parents gone, Aunt Anne was his new mother and father combined. He was a lucky soul for sure, having her in his life.

George’s bakery was always so busy. Even when someone in town passed away, they would invariably order his famous Chocolate Death Cake to serve at the wake, memorial, or reception after the funeral. Someone anonymously even ordered that cake for a wedding to give as a gift to the groom! The nerve of some people! Anyway, I digressed, so back to the cake. While learning from Aunt Anne, George would bake a chocolate cake every week to commemorate the passing of his parents. He and his parents always loved to eat chocolate cake, and George would go through the neighborhood and share it with his friends. George called it his Chocolate Death Cake because not only was it made in remembrance of his deceased parents, but it was so rich in chocolate you could die for it! That cake became his most famous dessert in town after he opened the bakery.

One day in December, his whole life seemed to change overnight. A bus loaded with college-age students showed up at his bakery when their bus had a flat and ended up in a ditch right outside of town. His shop was busy with regulars, but suddenly there was an overflow of people, with many outside the door waiting to get in from the cold. He quickly sold out of his daily pastries but happened to have plenty of cakes in the back he had just baked for an upcoming wake scheduled within two days. He brought four upfront to sell to the hungry students, along with free bonus coffee to help thaw them out.

A girl named Christine caught his eye, and it seemed mutual from the looks they gave each other. George was not much older than the students since he turned twenty-four that year, and they were all seniors. Christine approached George and asked for a piece of the cake. George was spellbound and tongue-tied for the first time in his life, and without saying a word, turned around, cut a piece of the cake, and gave it to her while saying it was death cake. Stunned, she asked if she should eat death cake? He stammered and had a hard time getting the words out that he wanted to say. He finally told her yes, you should, so she did, and then asked him to tell her why he named it chocolate death cake as he sliced himself a piece as well. They talked the rest of the day and grew very fond of each other.

Christine left that night with her senior friends but returned two weeks later to the bakery, where she and George fell in love. Christine finished school in May of that following year and moved to our little town to marry George, the love of her life. They lived in the house that he grew up in that Aunt Anne left him in her will, and they had four children. One being named George, jr. The others were the three prettiest girls in town that luckily looked like their beautiful Mom.

When George passed away, everyone in town came to his funeral, and at his reception, there was not a dry eye in the house as someone yelled out, “pass me another slice of chocolate death cake!” Everyone was sure George was looking down and beaming with that big, crooked smile on his face along with his parents and Aunt Anne.

While raising their glasses, they thanked George for the beautiful memories and their heavenly slice of Chocolate Death Cake!

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge July 2021.

The Last Survivor

 Finding the Missing Link

My Mother's Locket

Mila ran to the pond facing her house and started to dig in the mud. It was wet, gooey, and had algae growing throughout the watery muck. Yet with her bare hands, no gloves on, she managed to dig a hole about 3 feet down and less than 1 foot across. It had to be here. She was sure of it.

Today was September 13, 2027, and the year before, 2026, had been brutal. It was more difficult than she ever remembered in her life. She compared it to her mother's stories of the 2020 covid 19 pandemic, but this was no comparison. Shortly after the pandemic in 2023, the New World Order had taken over every country. World War III was raging within three years. The aftermath had left everything in shambles, her life, her family, friends, pets, mostly all gone. She stayed in her bed for about six months crying on and off.

Her beautiful mother perished near the pond at their house that now laid in waste and muck. She was there one minute, then gone the next. Mila saw her disappear in the light and her clothes were left piled where she had once stood. Mila screamed for what seemed like an eternity, but there was no one around to hear or comfort her. She was all alone. All of her family members were gone. It was so surreal that everything happened in less than a blink of an eye.

Months went by, and she finally came out of her shell. She was lucky her family were survivalists who had prepared for that fateful day, not knowing it would be their last. Mila was grateful for the way her family planned out their lives. They took care of every detail from natural medicines, growing and canning their food to preparing for the worst-case scenario. Sadly, they didn't get to reap what they had sown. She began to believe after her months of crying that she was the lucky one. She had no idea, but she would find out soon enough.

No one in over ten months had stopped by her farm nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains close to Granite Falls, which is north of the metro area of Seattle. Mila and her family moved to this small 10-acre farm in 2021 after the 2020 pandemic. They wanted to become self-sufficient and not be controlled by the government. It worked. They labored, planned, and mainly stayed away from people. It was easy to do after the pandemic because of the government rules. Her family, however, did attend a nearby Church every Sunday. She would go occasionally, but it just wasn't her thing. Strange that no one from there had checked up on her in all this time.

Since she didn't tend to the crops in the short growing season, the fields were now bare. Fall was here, and winter would be soon. She barely had enough food to make it another three months. Desperation was setting in, and her home was in shambles. She needed to have hope, even though right then there was none. Maybe, finding what was lost would give her that.

Today she felt she had come to her senses and knew she needed to start planning her survival. First, she needed to find her mother's heart-shaped locket. It haunted her in her dreams as if calling for her to search. Mila had collected all her mother's clothing left on the ground, but she didn't see the locket. Her mother never took it off. It was a big part of who she was, and Mila was determined to find it now that she had come to her senses.

She reached down into the mud one last time with a spider running up her arm as she was pushing down. She wasn't scared of any itsy bitsy spider. Her heart leaped when she felt something like a thin chain, so she proceeded to pull it up to the top to get a closer look. It wouldn't budge, so she dug further down and scooped as much of it up in her hand as possible, and brought it to the surface. It was her mother's locket! She was so delighted that she couldn't control her happiness, so she began to sob. It was like holding her mother again.

She wasn't sure what was inside the heart-shaped locket. She thought it must be a picture of her mother and father. What else could it be? She took it to her water pump by the barn and pumped cool water over it. She cleaned and dried it with the bandana she carried around for her ever-flowing tears, then slowly opened it.

She was shocked there were no pictures but a bible passage that said, "Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord."

She now knew her fate.

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge June 2021.



My Looming Passion!

 Envision Your Creation with the Right Tools!

Beanie Caps & Tools

Who doesn’t love to create? We are born into a world with so many infinite things to do. Take, for example, my favorite hobby, which is looming. The yarn I use is first made synthetically or naturally with the wool of an animal. It is then spun into yarn by hand or by a machine. I then buy the yarn sold at a hobby shop or from a local spinner. What seems like magic turns a string into either a beanie cap or an enormously warm scarf. A very simple strand of yarn becomes clothing. It always amazes me how I helped it morph into something useful.

What tools I use are just as necessary as the yarn I loom. I have my favorite loom, hook, needle, and last but never least, my scissors. When I need to cut the string, there is no other way to do it than to have the best scissors to use. Why, you might ask? The yarn is not easy to break at all, and it needs a clean, crisp cut to make sure I can thread my needle easily for my finishing work. Where I use the scissors a lot on one piece is when I am making a fringed scarf. The size and cuts need to be the same to complement each side of the scarf.

How I work all the tools together to get a complete piece never ceases to amaze me. When I buy tools, I envision not the device itself as it appears on the shelf but a work of art that will soon be in the making. Your tools play a significant role in your art. Next time you visit a store to buy that pair of scissors, loom, or whatever you need to create from your passion, envision it right then and there. It may not be magical, but it sure feels like it. Take your creative power and turn that small string into something extraordinary. Trust me, it will be worth it.

Since I love making beanie caps and scarves, I end up with so many on hand. I love to give them to my family, friends, neighbors, and even total strangers! When it is cold outside, it seems to brighten up their day and keeps them happy and warm. I have even ventured into taking my hobby and turning it into a business by selling them online. Your passion can take you to places you never thought you would go. When you love to do something, it is never a business, even though it might take you down that road. Your passion is what keeps you motivated and energized. Your tools are what does the work when you have the right tools to use. You get to enjoy the fun and the satisfaction of having created your ware, whatever that may be. Mine happens to be looming.

I recommend finding a hobby you are passionate about and using the right tools to make it happen. Don’t create more work for yourself by denying your chosen hobby the tools needed to do things the right way. The right tools for the job can mean the difference between an unattractive beanie cap versus a well-made one or a wonderfully made scarf versus one with uneven and fuzzy ends on the fringe. It does make a difference. I would choose the well-made one and so would your family, friends, neighbors and even those total strangers!

To conclude, love what you do and make sure you have the tools needed to do it. If not, go to your local hobby store and look at the display of what you need to complete your dream and envision your creation. It just might change your life. It certainly did mine.

This was first published on vocal. media as a writing challenge June-July 2021.

Writing About What Matters Most

I'm not sure where to begin. I haven't written anything new lately, but I intend to. This virus has opened up a whole new window of understanding of where our world is now headed. Good? Bad? I see that people are having opinions across the board every which way. I don't understand what happened to our first amendment right to speech. Forums should be open to civil discussions. The mainstream media is playing bias games. It's sad that we are all going through this. Lost friendships along the way, I think is the hardest in all this, but at least when you stand your ground on your principles that will happen. Not everyone sees the same things, some are blinded to only their truth. This blog will not be about political issues when it comes to writing. I have so many other stories I want to tell that have nothing to do with politics. I am, however, setting up several other blogs for political writing as I see it. Freedom of speech is still a right, the Constitution is still the law of the land as well as our Bill of Rights. Don't submit to the hate, love your neighbor as yourself, look up, and keep the faith. 

Without Writers

Never really thought about it, but I assume we would all have some inspiration from the world surrounding us. Good, bad, and ugly for sure. What do you think?

My 1976 Selfie

It was a hot summer day in 1976 that I took my first “selfie.” I was in a small dorm room located on a community college campus in East Texas. 

I was taking a summer photography class and had been lent a camera by the photography Instructor. It was a box with a mirror, and I had to hold it steady and long to have the light come into it and the picture engraved on the negative.

I stood in front of the mirror in my room and held the box close to my body as I looked up and waited for the image to be taken. I couldn’t move and didn’t want to breathe.  It’s not the same as today when you can put your cellular phone up and just snap. If you don’t get it right, you delete it and take another one.  No, this one was different. You didn’t know how the image would come out in the darkroom until you processed the film and put the paper into the water bath of chemicals to see the output that would magically appear! 

That summer, I took a lot of pictures, most of my nieces and nephews. I was amazed at the clarity and expressions I captured. I really liked my selfie. It showed me as the smart-ass I was in school.  I was a rebel of the seventies. I thought I knew everything, and no one could tell me otherwise. I captured my rebellious youth and independence. 

I really didn’t know as much as I thought looking back in hindsight. I only imagined most things that weren’t at all the way they indeed were. Regardless I captured my image that showed who I was in that moment in time like people do today, only more frequently due to technology.

I had someone tell me that this generation invented the selfie (maybe the name), but I have to differ since I have my own from 1976. Many others, photographers of the past, have theirs to prove the existence of a long-ago sensation of taking one’s own self-portrait. The difference is with the instrument, be it a cellular phone, camera, or paintbrush.  It is the concept of immortalizing oneself with an image from a moment in time. 

I actually like mine. 

Just Keep Moving

 This is a fictional story based on true events written for an assignment in my writing class. 

The ship was headed out to sea.  The coast line of California was barely visible as it headed at full speed toward the Hawaiian Islands.  Pearl Harbor had just been bombed only days before on December 7, 1941 by the Japanese Imperial Army and the USS. McCoy was being deployed to help with the search and rescue mission. The crew was still in shock and hardly anyone spoke on board as they headed out to help their fellow sailors.

“Hey, Rick do you have a cigarette?”  Charlie asked.

“Yea, here you go.  What do you think we will find there?” 

“Beats me, but it won’t be good.  I can’t understand why we didn’t know.  How could this happen to us?  You know I had orders to transfer to the U.S.S. Arizona two weeks ago but they postponed them until they could replace me.  Lucky me. It could have been me.  I just don’t know why it wasn’t.” 

“Charlie, sometimes things are meant to happen for a reason, Rick said.  I know.  I once missed a flight out of New York, headed for Alabama and it crashed.  It wasn’t meant to be.  This is what was meant to be, you and me going to Hawaii and cleaning it up.  Next stop Japan.  Next stop Germany.  It won’t end.  We will keep cleaning up the mess. “How long have you been in?”

“Too long.  I was going to be discharged in August but re-enlisted since I was promised an assignment in Hawaii.  What a joke now.  I guess I am now officially assigned there but not like I thought I would be.” 

”Well, to make you feel good, I was scheduled to be discharged yesterday!  Thank you Japan! Now my lucky ass is good for at least another year, two or however long it takes.  Help us all if we enter the war with Germany. I might never leave. ” 

Rick looked up at the blue sky and was silent for about five minutes as both men contemplated the weight that was now on their shoulders.  The only sound they could hear were the waves as they beat against the ship.  War was inevitable and a world war at that.  Rick looked back down and turned to Charlie.  “Remember your fate will happen no matter what.  Lucky one day, maybe not the next.  You just have to keep moving.  Here have a few more cigarettes for tonight.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charlie thanked Rick for the cigarettes as he put them in his pocket.  “Yea, see you tomorrow and thanks for the smokes.”  As Rick left the deck, Charlie turned to look for the shoreline but it was gone.  Gone he thought.  Now there is nothing but the ocean and our ship.  What if we are attacked?  As he thought about being attacked, Rick’s voice echoed in his head, “Remember your fate will happen no matter what. Lucky one day, maybe not the next.  You just have to keep moving.”

I’ll just keep moving….