The Locker Story

image courtesy of apartment therapy

In seventh grade I was granted a top locker, by any usual circumstances this would have been an honor. My family was in the middle of a move placing me in a brand new school, I didn’t know a soul, but I knew one thing, no one wanted a bottom locker. 

I arrived at my locker as I spun the knob I could not determine which number to stop at, because the line at the top is literally invisible if you stand at 4’11”.  Embarrassed and ashamed my load of books served as my constant companion throughout the day.

Just a Joke

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. Playing up the April Fools theme they challenged us to write about a time when a joke took on  a life of its own in 350 words or less. This story immediately took the front row in my memory. 
photo credit: Pinterest

 

Just after the last bell rang and graduation parties had come to a close me and a few close friends took off to Hawaii for our big senior trip. We would be scattered across colleges soon enough, and this was to be the last big hoorah. 

I had a semi-serious boyfriend at home. My friends and I decided it might be fun to play a little joke on him while I was in Hawaii.

Hope

Computer light glaring at my face, cold fingers skim the keyboard, my head shifts to the window. I gaze with wonder as beautiful flurries appear from the blue abyss. I began to reflect on all the graces snow has granted me. I kind of owe snow, in a way. As the white beauty camouflages my brown grass I’m trying to imagine my life without snow. Only my imagination is not one of wonder, and two, I’ve never really wanted a life without this cold white stuff.

This morning I woke up to a skiff of snow, and admittedly wished for more. I came home from the gym, shoved snow boots on my two year old and we shoveled that skiff off our driveway, not because I had to, but because I wanted to connect with a love that has provided me such joy for as long as I can remember. My daughter and I walked the block in our snow boots, it's fun to see her try to figure it out. To stomp it, slip on it, and gingerly walk the sidewalks. Her cold rosy cheeks warmed my heart. I took a deep breath and inhaled a cold refreshing thought, the thought that everything was, one day, going to be okay. Perhaps it wasn’t going to be today, but it will, someday.

With all snow has given me, it once again, displayed its generosity, as it provided me with one of life's ultimate little treasures, hope. I realized while some things in life are ever-changing, snow is not. It will come every winter, guaranteed. It may come too late, or too early. There may be too much, or not enough, but there will be snow and where there is snow, there is hope.

Those of you who frequent this blog (thank you) and you may have seen this post before. I revised it for the purposes of this prompt from Write on Edge.

The guidelines for this prompt:

This is a piece about (x), illustrated through (y).
So, for this week, we want the (x) to be hope.
Meaning:

This is a piece about hope, illustrated through (y).What is the (y)? Only you know. You have that truth—those stories in you. Now share it with us.In 400 words or less. A true story about hope, illustrated through your experiences

Chocolate

It was 6:00 am she heard the pounding of her toddler jumping in the crib. It was wake-up time. Lindy stumbled over the pillow she had thrown out of her bed in the middle of the night, found a pair of sweat pants, somehow navigated her glasses, and placed some slippers on her feet that she had never bothered to put away.

“Hello baby,” she said with a sweet enthusiasm.

She grabbed the baby, and immediately felt and smelt the urine soaked pajamas. This is going to be a long day, she thought. She fumbled through the clean laundry she hadn’t hassled to fold and dressed her sweetie pie in something dry, not matching, but dry.

Poured her daughter some cheerios and set her in her favorite little green chair. For the moment things seemed content. Lindy stepped into her office, to check her email, vowing she would just be a few minutes. Within those minutes her darling daughter had managed to mess her diaper, dig into this diaper and come up with poop covered hands. A toddler’s treasure, apparently. The little darling shoved Lindy’s office door opened, leaving her evidence smeared down the door, and swirled over the coffee table.

Lindy rushed the trouble-maker to the tub, thinking, is this really my life now? She scrubbed the screaming child, and placed her daughter in yet another outfit. Then proceeded to wipe down the feces coated doors and table. Lindy looked up at the clock, 7:30 am, ah shit; this is going to be a very long day. The entire day took on the stink it started with; by nap- time momma was ready to abandon ship.

In her previous life she may have taken to the streets pounding the pavement with steps of frustration. Back then she possessed healthy vices, the kind that would get her heart pumping, sweat flowing and calories burning. Now, stuck at home, she sipped back 32 ounces of diet coke, and crunched her way through almost the entire bag of chocolate Cadbury eggs. Her numb mind formed only one thought. Oh my, how things have changed.

This was a little challenge from Write on Edge: 400 word limit where wine, chocolate, or coffee are featured prominently.

The Bedtime Routine

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. "In the spirit of dialect, slang, and turns of phrase, this week’s RemembeRED prompt is: Write a piece of creative non-fiction in which turns of phrase, dialect, slang, or colloquialisms feature prominently."

“It’s time for bed sweetie.”

“One moye stoyee, pease,” She begged.

I looked down at those big brown eyes, okay one more then it’s off to bed you go.

She did her famous celebratory jump, “Dis one mommy.”

I opened the glittered cover and began to read, “Once upon a time there lived three pretty princesses.”

Tiny hands clapped joyously, “Pitty pincesse, pitty pincess!”

A smile stretched across my face, I continued the story, “One princess had long curly locks as red as an apple and she loved glittery dresses. The next had hair as dark as chocolate; she loved books and telling stories. The blond princess liked to play…”

Her tiny hands flipped to the next page. She ran her fingers across the glitter of the princess dress. “Pitty, pitty,” She exclaimed.

With all the hurried turning of the pages story-time was a bit quicker tonight.

“All the princesses were different, and each was beautiful in her own way.” I closed the book, and kissed her cheek.

“Okay baby, time for bed.” I said without a grin.

“Chalky milk,” She demanded.

I stared down at those big eyes, one hand perched on my hip, “You’re stalling, and I’m not falling for it.”

“Daaa, I some chalky milk,” She yelled down the hall.

“No honey, dad knows your tricks too.” I scooped her body up, laid her down, positioned her worn-out blankie next to her soft cheek, the same way I did every night.

“Nigh, nigh I laa you, I said softly as I began to shut the door.”

“Laa ew, nigh, nigh.”

I closed the door, plopped my heavy body on the couch next to my husband, the stress of the day melted, “She down.”

He put his arm around my neck pulled my face closer and kissed me on the cheek, “Laa you,” He said.

Because You've got to have Friends

We met in the first grade, Mrs. Pulsipher’s class, she was tall, beautiful and girlie in every sense of the word, and as for me I was short, sporty and somewhat rough around the edges. As the rule states, opposites attract, we were no exception.

We carpooled together, played together about everyday and soon we achieved some common interests such as dolls, dollhouses, and sprite.

Before we began each play date we would have to determine the location, your house or mine? She would always ask, “Outside or inside?” I don’t know why she would bother to ask, my reply was annoyingly consistent, “Your house, outside.” I knew perfectly well her preference was the opposite. On occasion she would win the argument, I’d stroll my dolly to her house, of course she always met me half way, we’d play with our dolls, drink sprite and eat Mac N’ Cheese or Top Roman. I loved being at her house because my sisters didn’t live there, she loved being at my house because my sisters were there.

Carissa, throughout most of our years together, was an only child; yet over time the lines between friend and sister became blurred. I would go on trips with her family; her home was my second home. She would come to Bear Lake with my family each summer. I was her sister and she was mine. Even my own sisters adopted her as such.

In the 6^th grade she moved about 30 minutes away. I was devastated; it felt as if a member of my family was plucked out of my home and placed in another city. My mom promised she would drive me to her home as much as possible. She kept her promise. Later my family moved, which made our commute just 15 minutes. Now we are about two hours away, yet with families and responsibilities of our own the miles aren’t the only distance between us. Our visits are few and far between. A random phone call, an email and a text highlighting an inappropriate quote from a movie keep us together. Though our lives have grown in their own different direction we still know at any given moment we could call the other and cry. To have such a friend, is a rare gift.

Yet sometimes I wish we were still kids sipping sprite, watching movies and making one decision, outside or inside.

Write on Edge,  thanks again for your inspiration. The picture above is of our daughters at the zoo.

If these Skis Could Talk

We first met when she was in college. Our connection was instantaneous. We’ve seen some pretty remarkable mountains together. We’ve experienced the best of, Utah, Colorado and British Columbia. I’ve been with her through failed relationships. I was there as she out-skied Jonathon and then there was Matt, he was okay, not great. I remember the Targee trip like it was yesterday, it’s where she first knew she had met her match. Mason was the guy to really try us. I knew he was the one before she did.  I was there when her one and only asked for her hand. At the top the “Dream” lift he placed the diamond on her finger. I’ve never felt her legs shake as much as they did on that special day.

I’ve guided her down mountains she thought were too steep to face on her own. I’ve been beat up by a rock or two when she just couldn’t resist going out of bounds, both of us, an absolute sucker for adventure. I am always trying to keep up with boys. I’ve side stepped up traitorous terrain all for only a few more turns in deep powder. I’ve been with her as lasting friendships were created. I am her favorite accessory. I have served as a reliable vehicle to deepen her relationship with her husband.  Needless to say, we’ve had a lot of really memorable days together. I can say with confidence I know her, better than she knows herself. I know she hates the easy stuff; she wants it fluffy and just cold enough to keep it that way. She loves the way I glide just right on top of the powder. We have worn the title, “Powder Hound” a time or two.

I am the one who gently nudges her to make one more turn, push out of the traverse one more time; because I know she’ll thank me in the end. She doubts herself; I wish she wouldn’t.  She’s so much more than she gives herself credit for. In many ways I am her compass pointing her down the hill that will lead to the happiness she deserves.

By the end of each winter she puts me up, I rest in her garage like a trophy, reigning over the other toys with a slight boast in my posture because… I know her.

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. We were challenged to tell our story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

If you had to Title Yourself?

For this week's promt over at WOE we were to create a title and a tagline... Here goes.

Short and Sassy

Or at least that's how Mason prefers it.

I do hope when I near the end of my life I'll have accumulated something a little more meaningful than this title, but for now, I think I've earned this one.

Holiday Feature

A big thanks to Write on Edge today for including me in their Holiday Feature series. I hope you'll click over and lend me your support. Thanks!

Getting Ready for Winter

“Alice you know we HAVE to get the yard ready before the snow comes”

Begrudgingly she replied, “Yes, I know. I know. We will, we’ll do it this Saturday.”

Saturday arrived. The couple looked out over their yard full of perennials that needed chopping, after all the chopping, there would be raking after all the raking there would be a big haul, which would require a truck and a visit to the local dump. Five hours later they had chopped, raked and dumped. The only problem was the entire backyard was left with all the same obligations and their Saturday was gone.

Alice volunteered, “I’ll do the backyard this week, honey, while you’re at work.”

Wednesday rolled around; Alice put the baby down for a nap and faced the perennials. She began chopping the plants back. Her body flooding with anger. She began to hack the plants with more speed then with more vigor. On this cool fall day she began to sweat. She could not get the sound of his voice nor his painful confessions to rid her mind. His words like a fly kept annoying her work ethic, each time she tried to swat it away the same devastating thoughts seemed to come at her with more persistence. Periodically she would be interrupted with a string of tears. She was grateful her assignment was in backyard.   

This post was prompted by Write on Edge we were asked to focus on house cleaning. Either in the literal or metaphorical sense. Remember to evoke the feelings and emotional subtext from the act of cleaning. (I had to opt for yard work instead of house work..hmm what does that tell you?)

Crash

She ran in the door tears in her eyes. “Richard, I wrecked the car.”

Eyes widened, anger ensuing, “Was anyone hurt?”

Hands came up to cover her mouth more tears rushed down her face, “No, I’m really sorry.”

He turned to his daughter, “Come on Susan we’ve got to get you to practice.”

Richard and Susan walked out the door to see their family van glaring with destruction.  

Fearing his reaction, Susan looked up at her dad.  He took one long look at the gold van and said, “F***, why do I buy her anything?”

Susan will always remember that ride to softball practice as long, quiet and uncomfortable.

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. The prompt: Your word is CRASH. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience; spend ten minutes really exploring that memory.

A Portrait

Books closed, finals taken, weather warming, we were all looking forward to summer. I had decided to stay in my college town over the summer, no real pull towards home. I liked my job, loved my roommates, things were looking up.

Fresh off a break-up, I was open to new possibilities, new people and new experiences, so when my roommate asked if I wanted to tag along with she and I bunch of people I didn’t know on a river rafting trip to Jackson Hole I shrugged my shoulders and said, why not.

I soon learned this would not be the traditional mass of disorganization most college trips are. I began to receive emails detailing menus, agendas and activities. The trip was officially was named Bitchen Trip ’06, and yes T-shirts were printed to this effect. Each email was signed off by someone who called himself Big Slick. Whoever this was I was hoping he didn’t give himself this nickname.

Rafting down the Snake River proved to be cold, eventful and thrilling. The next day we all packed in a blue school bus and arrived at an array of beautiful falls. We took turns jumping off cliffs and swimming. We spent our evenings around the fire eating, laughing and being shot at by air soft guns. (Very funny boys...) Needless to say, the trip quickly lived up to its name.

As I look at this portrait I think about a time when my life allowed me to be carefree, spontaneous, and adventurous. I walked away from this trip with new friends, a great story and the man who would later become my husband.

Just call me Mrs. Slick.

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. The challenge is outlined here. 

My Quiet Place

It is no place at all. It’s the million tiny strides I’ve made nearly every place I’ve gone.
 It is around the block. Up the hill, where the greenery overhangs the road telling you, you’ve made it. It is the rocky dirt path bordered by vibrant leaves companioned with a flushing cool river. It is along Boston’s breathtaking Charles River, through the campus of William & Mary, up the decorated streets of San Francisco. It is on the humid beaches of Fiji and on the outskirts of New York.  It is where I put one foot in front of the other and allow myself to dream. As each breath escapes my mouth, troubles lessen, possibilities open and I am free for that moment.  My clear mind begins to write little fantasies, and long novels, few of which have been put to paper. The pounding of my feet on the pavement hurts those who have hurt me. The swaying of my arms remind me of all those I’ve embraced. The scenery, no matter where it is, swells my heart with gratitude. It is a time to pray, heal and imagine. It is my quiet place.

Another Writer's Challenge I did for Write on Edge. The challenge is outlined here.
Thanks for Reading,
Lindy